The woman went on to ask about Susan’s marriage, her family life, relatives, a host of tiny, everyday details, and Susan gave as much information as she could. Not once did she feel threatened by dropping her guard or releasing the information. The woman had the same curious effect on her that her husband Silas had. When the questioning was over with there was silence again. ‘Can you help me, Mrs Blake?’ she pushed tentatively.
‘Your husband is not convinced we can.’
‘I can come alone…’
‘We’d prefer it if you didn’t. To help you both we need you both.’
‘I can persuade him,’ she said.
‘And there are costs. It is how we make our living, keep the project going, and it does not come cheap, because what we offer is unique.’
‘I have plenty of money, Mrs Blake. That’s not a problem.’
‘Then I suggest we agree to a meeting. But this is on the condition that your husband attends, too.’
‘That’s fine,’ Susan assured. ‘I’ll see to it that he comes. When can we meet you?’
‘Oh, it won’t be me. It will be my representative on the mainland. His name is Sylvester Copeland. Can I take your phone number, please?’ Susan told her and she heard the swish of paper over the phone. ‘Mr Copeland will telephone you in about a week’s time. He will arrange to meet with you and your husband. I assume you have my number written down.’
‘That’s right,’ she said, looking at the piece of paper before her.
‘Please destroy the number and if you have already committed it to your mobile or other communication device then remove that also. You will not need it again.’
‘That sounds rather cloak-and-dagger,’ she said lightly.
‘Please do as I say, Mrs Carmichael, if you wish to help Becky. If your meeting with Mr Copeland is a success then I will see you personally on Connalough Point. If not then goodbye and good luck with the future.’
The phone went dead.
* * * *
6
Short Notice
He looked decidedly uncomfortable but had been surprisingly encouraging about the meeting with the man called Sylvester Copeland. Before Paul Carmichael had gone off to the conference his attitude had been cold and distant; on his return he was almost ebullient and he probed her for more information on Connalough Point. Susan came clean and told him all about her conversation with Helen Blake who ran the place. Rather than pour scorn on the entire thing he was openly interested.
‘What’s brought about this change of heart?’ she asked.
‘Maybe it could help us after all,’ he said, and kissed her on the forehead. It was the first sign the hard crust of his icy grief was melting enough for him to begin to love her again and for hope to be rekindled.
But the call from Sylvester Copeland didn’t come and she began to get worried that either she wasn’t being seriously considered or that, worse, it was all a sham, like Paul had said. A month went by before the call came through; a short conversation between Susan and Copeland that was only long enough for him to tell her where the meeting would take place and that it should remain a secret. Under no circumstances were they to tell anyone about it. Once he had her assurance she’d comply he confirmed a date and time and told them to be prepared to travel to Connalough Point with short notice. That is, if he felt satisfied they were entirely suitable.
‘A bit stringent, aren’t they?’ said Paul.
‘Careful, more like,’ Susan said. She put a hand on his arm. There had been times he would have resisted such contact, pulled his arm free. But on this occasion he put his hand on hers and patted it. ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’ she asked. ‘I know how sceptical you are…’
‘It’s for you,’ he said. ‘It seems to be what you want, what you need. We can always back out if we don’t like what this guy Copeland has to say, if we don’t think whatever they have to offer on Connalough Point is for us. What have we got to lose?’
They were given the name of a city hotel some ninety miles away. Told they would be met in the lobby. They drove most of the way in silence, each occupied with thoughts of their own. Susan couldn’t help but recall the long hikes to Edinburgh to see Becky. The time they first went up there to get her settled into student accommodation, buy her a replacement showerhead, a lamp for her small bedroom that her mother privately worried was more than a little grotty; to go out and stock up on groceries so she wouldn’t starve, to have a cup of coffee at an arty coffee house that Becky raved about and which Susan thought too conceited and overpriced; to give her one final hug before they set off back home, long enough for Susan to silently say she loved and missed her daughter very much, and short enough not to give it away. All these thoughts and more rumbled through her head like traffic on the motorway they travelled.
They sat in the hotel lobby feeling almost nervous. Sales reps bustled in and out; some kind of conference was going on in one of the rooms and young men and women in sharp suits were darting about with feigned urgency and interest, and engaged in conversations with fellow suits in just the same manner. Susan and Paul felt slightly awkward. She looked at him, her eyes silently asking what it was they were doing here. She began to have second thoughts and was on the verge of standing up and telling her husband it might be best to call the whole thing off when a man came up to them.
‘Good afternoon. Mr and Mrs Carmichael?’
He was about their age, blonde, slim, wearing an open-necked shirt and casual jacket and trousers, a cardboard file tucked under his arm. His face was warm, a patina of understanding that only comes with direct experience. Susan felt herself put immediately at ease. He shook their hands in turn, beginning with Susan.
‘Mr Copeland?’ she asked.
‘Please call me Sylvester,’ he insisted. ‘Forgive me for being so late. I hate to be late. But I have been stuck for some time in one of the lifts and waiting for help to come along.’ He glanced around him at the flurry of suits. ‘I can tell you, it’s not the best thing in the world to be trapped in a lift with people attending a non-ferrous metal conference. As you can imagine, the conversations can be a little boring. Follow me, if you will; I have a room booked through here.’ He indicated with his file across the lobby to twin doors.
He showed them into a bland meeting room, a window looking out onto the flat, open roofs of part of the hotel; a round coffee table sat in the room’s centre, four blue, padded chairs in attendance. There was a smell of coffee wafting over from a percolator on a metal trolley in a corner. They sat down and he offered them a drink, which they took but were to remain untouched throughout the meeting.
He introduced himself as Connalough Point’s representative on the mainland and put them at ease.
‘This meeting is for our mutual benefit, Mr and Mrs Carmichael,’ he said. ‘We have to know we are right for each other before progressing any further. I am not a doctor, nor a psychologist, nor am I qualified in the medical profession. My role here is not to go into great detail about your circumstances – that is left to others on Connalough Point – but to hear why you want to attend our little community and to lay out the rules by which we operate. I can assure you that these rules are in place for your benefit and to ensure Connalough Point maintains its record of privacy and exclusivity in order to help others in the future. But before we proceed, I just wish to say that I work for Connalough Point because I know it works. It helped me when I lost my wife ten years ago. I share and understand your sense of loss and your grief, but you have come to the right place. Everyone who works for the project has benefited greatly from it and swears by its effectiveness, its uniqueness, its powers for good. Long may it continue.’
He went on to question them about their daughter’s death and Susan’s subsequent dreams. He made notes, nodding and issuing the odd-grunt of encouragement as she spoke. He took it all very seriously.
‘So what exactly happens on Connalough Point?’ Paul asked bluntly. ‘How is it unique?
’
‘You wish to communicate with your dead daughter. We can facilitate that.’
‘So can a thousand other cranks.’
‘Paul…’ said Susan.
He looked at her. ‘I know my wife saw a number of so-called psychics a while back. They all turned out to be cranks or fraudsters. I don’t want her getting hurt again.’
‘We are neither cranks or fraudsters, Mr Carmichael.’
‘We only have your word for it.’
Copeland’s smile never wavered. ‘True. But sometimes you have to have faith and find it in your heart to have trust.’
‘Trust is in short supply at the moment,’ he said, his voice low. ‘As you can perhaps understand.’
‘I trust them, Paul,’ Susan interjected firmly.
‘Fine,’ he said. He eyed Copeland. ‘Are you on commission?’
‘I beg you pardon, Mr Carmichael?’
‘I think you’ve said enough for now,’ said Susan. I’m sorry, Sylvester.’
‘I’m asking, that’s all; are you on commission? I mean, it’s a legitimate question, and it’s important, isn’t it? If you are then the more people you get through your doors the more you get in return. Trust me, I know about that; it’s the basis of my job.’
‘That’s hardly appropriate, Paul…’ she said.
‘I think it’s very appropriate,’ he countered.
Sylvester Copeland nodded thoughtfully. ‘He’s right, Mrs Carmichael. That would have a bearing on proceedings. But as it happens I’m not working on a commission basis.’
‘Salary, then?’ Paul pushed. ‘Bonus for numbers, is that it?’
‘I do this for free, Mr Carmichael,’ he admitted.
Paul went quiet. Glanced at his wife. ‘Really?’
‘Really. Connalough Point helped me, and out of gratitude I offer to be Mrs Blake’s representative on the mainland. No more than that. I work as a builder, my own company, if you must know.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Paul said sheepishly. ‘I didn’t mean…’
‘It’s understandable. Like you say, there are so many people nowadays who take advantage of grief. So many charlatans, false spiritualists, that kind of thing. I can safely say that is not the case with our project. As I can safely say this is not a numbers game, Mr Carmichael. You are not a figure on a spreadsheet.’
‘OK, my mistake,’ said Paul.
Copeland fingered his chin. ‘What your questions illustrate is your reticence, your scepticism, perhaps?’
‘Maybe. I’m doing this for my wife.’
‘I know,’ he said, looking down at his notes. ‘I was like you, before I went to Connalough Point. It is no bad thing to be protective, insular, sceptical, angry – I experienced a veritable barrage of emotions, some not so good and decidedly unhealthy. What I do need to hear is that you will open your heart up to this, at least for the period you are on the island. It cannot work if you resist.’
Susan looked at Paul, her eyes silently imploring. ‘Sure, I understand what’s required. You’ve got my full commitment to this, if we are allowed to go.’
‘Allowed is such a strong word, Mr Carmichael. I prefer chosen.’ He closed his file. ‘One last point before I go on; what special thing did Anthony Collier tell you?’
Paul looked to his wife, frowning with incomprehension.
‘Hood,’ she said. ‘He told me to say Hood.’
Copeland’s smile widened. ‘That is good, Mrs Carmichael. Just what I needed to hear.’
‘So who exactly is this guy Collier?’ asked Paul. ‘And what’s the significance of the word Hood?
‘Mr Collier’s grandfather died on the battleship HMS Hood during the Second World War. A terrible loss of life. Connalough Point helped put him in contact with him. Helped his grandfather’s soul move on. Mr Collier was even then a successful businessman and has given a significant annual donation to the project ever since, and if he recommends anyone to us we usually, without fail, give them a place. Because we do not have any personal contact with Mr Collier – one of the rules I will come onto in a moment – we have a sort of password known only to him and us which we use as a means of confirmation.’
‘So we have a place?’ said Paul. Susan was surprised at his enthusiasm, given the grilling he’d given Copeland.
‘Yes, I’m pleased to say you can attend Connalough Point.’
‘Thank you,’ said Susan. ‘You don’t know how much this means to me – to us.’
‘I do,’ he said. ‘But let me lay out the rules before you make up your mind fully.’ He steepled his fingers, put the tips of them to his lower lip. ‘In order for this to work we reduce life on the island to its most basic level. There are no radios, no TVs, no laptops, no mobiles, no electronic devices of any kind allowed on Connalough Point. There is only one telephone on the island, and that’s a landline for emergency use only, rarely used by clients. We like to keep it that way. Secrecy is paramount; some of the reasons for this will become apparent when you reach the island. Therefore, as with this meeting, you will tell no one that you will be going to the island. Use of social media to broadcast it is forbidden, and any reference to it will result in immediate termination of your attendance. Is that understood?’ They nodded in unison. ‘Likewise, once you leave the island you will not tell anyone about it, in any way, shape or form. You are prohibited from making contact with anyone else who was on the island with you. No photography is allowed, and no record must be made of your stay with us, in any form, be that hardcopy or digital. Your experiences will remain between you and us. You will be asked to sign a declaration to this effect. Is that clear, also?’
‘You really don’t want anyone knowing about this place, do you?’ said Paul.
‘It works,’ said Copeland. ‘We’d like to keep it that way.’ He opened his file and removed two sheets of paper, one for each of them. Then a pen which he laid on top of Susan’s sheet. ‘If you are ready to go through with this, then sign.’
‘We haven’t talked cost,’ said Paul.
‘Mrs Blake said it would be expensive,’ said Susan.
‘The paper also prevents you from divulging the contents of our conversation if you decide not to go ahead with this.’
‘Cost, Mr Copeland. How can we sign if we don’t know how much this will cost us?’
‘There is no charge.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘There is no cost attached. It is free. However, we encourage voluntary donations if you are satisfied.’
Paul laughed. ‘You’re pulling my leg, right?’
‘Not at all. Mrs Blake said it was going to be expensive because she knew if you were willing to pay for something expensive you wanted it badly. As I say, most people make a donation. The costs of the upkeep of the project are considerable and we have only a few clients each year passing through, so anything is welcomed, but payment is not a condition of attendance.’
Shaking her head, Susan took the pen, scanned the document and signed. She handed the pen to her husband who scrutinised his paper more thoroughly and eventually signed.
‘Don’t look so sceptical, Mr Carmichael. We are not here to fleece you. We are here to help.’
He shrugged. ‘So it seems. I’m looking for the catch.’
‘Most people do, but like them you won’t find one.’
Paul watched Copeland take the sheets of paper and put them into his file. ‘OK, so when do we start?’ he said.
Sylvester Copeland produced an envelope from his jacket pocket. ‘Here are your train and boat tickets, already arranged for you. You will set out five days from now.’
‘Five days?’ he said. ‘That’s too soon.’
‘We did warn you it would be short notice.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Susan, taking the envelope. ‘We can manage that.’
‘Pack a small suitcase each with only the most basic of things you will need to cover a month’s stay with us. Make sure you have plenty of warm clothing – jerseys, waterproof
coat, boots and trousers; it gets cold and wet on Connalough Point at this time of year and the cottage you will be staying in does not have central heating. Leave your car behind at your house. I have arranged for a taxi to pick you up and take you to the train station. You will be headed to Scotland. There’s a hire car waiting for you, which you will drive to the island of Skye. From here you will take the ferry over the Little Minch to North Uist where we have arranged overnight stay in the Lochmaddy Rest. It’s a basic hotel but adequate. Please do not tell anyone at the hotel the purpose of your journey. In the morning you will be picked up at the harbour by our own private boat, the Maid of the Storm, and taken over to Connalough Point which lies some miles west of North Uist. I hope you do not suffer unduly from seasickness as the seas there can be quite rough. Instructions detailing everything I’ve said and more are in the envelope.’
‘You really have thought of everything,’ said Paul, giving a little whistle.
‘You have the choice of pulling out now,’ said Copeland. His smile was unassuming, gentle. ‘There’s no pressure.’
Susan looked at her husband. ‘We don’t have to go,’ she said.
He stared deep into her eyes. ‘We have to,’ he conceded. He nodded at Copeland.
‘Very well, I hope you enjoy your time on Connalough Point and get out of it everything you wish for. Trust me, you will not be disappointed.’
Sylvester Copeland shook hands with the two of them again. He walked with them to the door and held it open for them. ‘I’d avoid the lift down if I were you.’ He gave them his trademark smile. ‘I will not see you ever again,’ he said.
Paul laughed. ‘That sounds ominous!’
‘I merely refer to the rules.’
‘Is Sylvester Copeland your real name?’ Paul asked out of the blue.
The D.M. Mitchell Supernatural Double bill Page 5