He realized he’d been woolgathering and looked up.
Blacklaw smiled across the fireplace at him.
“I’ve seen that same look before,” the old man said. “In Hugh—ambition, he called it. To me it often looked perilously close to greed. And in the end, it was that which killed him.”
John sat forward in his chair. “You’re right—I came for that part of the story—my father said heart attack, but I always got the impression he had hid something from me. You’ll tell me—you’ll tell me how it all ended for the two of you?”
The old man looked suddenly tired, and the color drained from his cheeks.
“It has never really ended,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “But I am too tired to tell you—not today. It still touches a raw nerve, even all these years later. Perhaps after dinner, we might share some liquor and I’ll pretend it’s the old days again. But not now—not so soon after seeing your face.”
Blacklaw picked up a bell from the chair-side table and rang twice. The butler was at his shoulder in seconds, helping the old man to his feet. The tartan rugs dropped to the floor. John had been right about Blacklaw’s legs—they looked pencil-thin even under his trousers, barely enough to support the man. Blacklaw pushed himself upright with a grimace of pain, and held to the butler’s arm as they shuffled across the room.
He turned as they reached the door.
“Dinner at eight,” Blacklaw said. “No need to dress up. And I’ve left you something over on the library table—I think you’ll find it interesting, and it will give us something else to talk about over a drink this evening.”
^
John managed to contain himself until the butler and the old man were out of sight, then almost tripped over his feet in his haste to cross the library to the table.
It was a photo album, the cover slightly faded as if overexposed to sunlight at some past date, the leather cracked in several places. There were over a hundred pages at a guess, each with two, sometimes three photographs slipped inside the clear plastic sleeve. His own face looked back at him from many of the images. There was Granddad Hugh on top of a mountain, or sunburned and shirtless in a rowboat, or sitting on a camel with the Sphinx in the background—none of them were images he had ever seen before, although he had seen many similar ones.
One in particular caught his eye—the two young men smiling broadly, arms around each other’s shoulders, mugging it up for the camera with the tumbled ruins of a jungle temple in the background, almost as an afterthought.
He took the album back to the fireside chair and sat with it in his lap, flicking through his granddad’s history.
In places it was like a pictorial history of the fifties and sixties. There were plenty of famous people along the way—Monroe, Einstein, Jagger, Gargarin, Twiggy and most of the England World Cup winning team among them. But the only constants, almost always side by side, were Blacklaw and Fraser—“Black and Tan” as the papers of the day had affectionately dubbed them.
John realized as he looked through the pictures that they were in chronological order—the earliest being grainy black and white, the lads barely out of University, bright-eyed and ready for a laugh. The middle section of the album was in full garish sixties color, although the men seemed somewhat soberly dressed by the standards of that decade. After the blocks of color John was surprised when the last few pages of the album contained a collection of more black-and-white prints, some of them almost too murky to make out any detail.
They had all been taken in a dark room—it looked more like a vault—or a dungeon, for there were manacles and chains hanging from rough walls. The photographs showed both Blacklaw and Fraser in varying degrees of undress. They seemed to be dancing, both together and with a series of young—some of them very young—almost naked women. For a few seconds John wondered whether he was looking at an orgy. If so, it was most definitely blackmail material, and he wondered whether he was looking at the thing that had killed both men’s careers so quickly and effectively.
The last page of the book showed John’s grandfather lying, fully naked, spread-eagled on a stone floor, atop a painted pentagram. There were two photographs—a long shot showing the body lying on the ritual circle and the second a close-up of Hugh Fraser’s face.
He was staring, dead-eyed, straight up, but he had a broad smile on his face
= 4 '
It was dark when Carole woke, and for the first few seconds she could not remember where she was or how she had gotten there. She lay still for several seconds, letting reality fill in around her sleep-addled mind. It was the sound of the rain on the window that finally allowed her to click back into her proper time and place.
Welcome to Scotland.
There was no sign that John had returned yet. She had the bed to herself, and that was usually a time for her to luxuriate and spread out, but she felt too nauseous. When she laid her head back on the pillow she started to feel dizzy, and as she swung herself out of the soft bed her head spun as if she’d overindulged in too much booze.
What do they put in their cakes up here?
She stumbled her way to the bathroom, barking her shin hard on the bedside cabinet on the way before finally, by fumbling around at the side of the door, managing to switch on a light. She turned on the faucet, and was dismayed to see that the water seemed to be almost orange in color for a while until, with a gurgle and much clanking in the aged plumbing, it ran clearer. She still wouldn’t have liked to drink any of it, but it would do for a quick wash and spruce up. She checked her watch and was surprised to find it was only five-thirty; she felt like she’d slept for hours.
She splashed water on her face and stared hard at herself in the mirror above the sink. It wasn’t like her to fall asleep in the afternoon. Then again, it wasn’t like her to stuff her face with cakes and sweet fancies in the afternoon either.
This place is getting to me.
She heard floorboards creak in the bedroom beyond the door. John had returned, probably creeping in thinking that she might be asleep.
“It’s about time,” she said and went through. “Where the hell have you been?”
The room was empty—but it felt like someone had just been there. She couldn’t put her finger on it. Maybe it was the hint of a smell of heather, or a warmer patch over by the wardrobe mirror as if something had just been standing there, breathing—or even the indentation in the bedclothes that seemed to have been made by a bigger frame than hers.
“Hello?” she said.
There was no answer. She fumbled around the wall until she found a switch and light flooded the room. She was quite alone—but she looked over at the wardrobe just in time to see a patch of condensation at head-height shrink and dissipate, as if retreating from the light.
She threw open the door to the outside landing, ready to scream—only to see John outside, his hand just reaching for the door handle.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said. “I was trying not to wake you.”
She pummeled her fists against his chest, but felt too weak to work herself up into a righteous rage.
“Don’t do it again. You really scared me,” she replied, and fell into his arms.
^
She felt better after a hot bath, even although the water was still that peculiar orange color, the legacy of getting the supply from a reservoir on a peat bog, John said. He sat on the tub’s edge as she soaked, and told her of his conversation with the old man, and of the photo album.
“So you were right?” she said, her interest piqued. “There was some kind of scandal—or threat of one?”
“It certainly looks that way from the photos. I don’t know whether Blacklaw will let me use any of them—but he must have shown them to me for a reason. Maybe we’ll find out over dinner.”
“If the old man turns up—what age is he anyway? He looks pretty frail.”
“He was born in the mid-thirties, I think, so he’ll be around eighty. He looks even older, I know, but
he seems to have been ill for a while. We shouldn’t worry about that. I’m sure the staff know how to look after him.”
“When they’re not looking after themselves, you mean?” Carole replied. “Just get the job done and we can go home—this place reminds me too much what’s in store for both of us down the road a way.”
John nodded.
“I know what you mean. Let’s hope the dinner isn’t equally as tired.”
^
Dinner turned out to be a most pleasant surprise. They had a thick soup with fresh bread, followed by salmon, potatoes and greens, all which tasted fresh and vibrant, and a pudding of a sticky treacle sponge that John wolfed down with gusto, but reminded Carole too much of her earlier excesses. She pushed it aside and John finished it off.
Their host had barely picked at his own food and seemed scarcely awake. Conversation had been sparse during the meal itself, and Carole foresaw a long dull evening ahead. But the old man perked up when they rose from the table and went through to sit by the fire in the library.
Like John earlier, Carole was struck dumb by the place as soon as she entered. The swirl of the staircases, the sturdy aged wood of the shelving and the glorious array of books stacked high up into the rafters made the room a thing of beauty she could only stand and gape at in admiration.
Blacklaw raised a laugh at her reaction.
“It gets to most everybody that way on their first visit. If you are not moved by the sheer loveliness of this place, then I am afraid you have no soul—at least none that I care to speak to.”
The butler brought a decanter and three glasses and poured a stiff drink for each of them before leaving the tray on a small table between the chairs. He lit a thin cigar for Blacklaw before leaving the three of them alone with only the cracking of the fire and the drumming of rain on the roof high above as company.
“I have sat here alone for many years now,” the old man said. “It is nice to have some young company around the house, for McKinnon can be a fusty old stick at times, and his spouse rarely says a word—at least not outside of the kitchen.”
He sucked on the cigar, and took in a long drag of smoke that he didn’t let out, as if his tissues were swallowing it up in lieu of food.
Carole took a sip of her drink. It was Scotch, something she wasn’t really partial to, but this one was smooth, slightly peaty, with a hint of summer flowers—indeed, it tasted like sunshine and warm days, and she took to it with some gusto.
Blacklaw smiled, and took a sip from his own glass.
“Scotch and a cigar—simple pleasures for a simple life. And a far cry from the old days when it would have been all caviar, champagne and dancing girls. But this will do nicely for my dotage. It’s our local single malt—made upstream, in the hills. This barrel is forty years old—laid down not long after Hugh himself was. It all seems so long ago now.”
Carole was surprised to see tears in the old man’s eyes. John leaned forward—she knew what he wanted to get the old man talking about—but she couldn’t bring herself to cause such pain to their host. She put a hand on John’s arm.
“Let’s leave the questions until tomorrow, shall we?”
John looked from her, to Blacklaw, and back again. She thought he might argue the case, but there was no arguing with the fact that Blacklaw was in no fit state to talk for very long.
Instead, and to his credit, John took up the bulk of the conversation.
“I meant to say earlier, I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Blacklaw. I’ve seen photographs, of course, and some of the old documentaries, but it is a pleasure to meet you in person. According to my dad, you were the nearest thing Granddad had to a brother.”
“I’m afraid I lost touch with your family many years ago,” the old man replied. “Time and distance can do terrible things to any relationships, and ours was already soured by…” He let the sentence drift off. “But tell me of happier times. Were you brought up in the house in Kent?”
John brought the old man up to date on his family history.
“I am so sad that I lost touch. But I remember your father,” Blacklaw said softly after a while. “He can’t have been much more than ten the last time I saw him—a quiet wee boy who wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”
John nodded. “That was Dad—anything for a quiet life. I think he rebelled against Hugh’s extravagant nature.”
Blacklaw laughed at that until he started coughing and was forced to stop.
“Extravagant is one way to put it, I suppose. You saw the photographs?”
John nodded.
“I have decided I will indeed tell you the story behind them—but not tonight. Such a tale needs the cold light of day to dispel the darkness. It can wait until morning.”
As if in agreement, something fluttered high above in the rafters. Blacklaw saw Carole looking.
“Bats in the belfry, I’m afraid,” he said, and cackled. “It comes to us all with age.”
For the first time, she wondered whether the old man might not be completely sane.
^
Blacklaw’s stamina did not last long after that. They finished off their drinks while Blacklaw smoked the cigar down to a stub, then he rang for the butler. McKinnon was at the old man’s side in seconds, helping him up out of the chair. When John and Carole stood as he rose, he motioned them back to their seats.
“Stay and enjoy the uisge,” he said. “I get precious little joy out of it myself these days, and someone really should. I’ll see you at breakfast around nine, if that’s all right by you.”
Not waiting for an answer he left, clinging onto the butler like a drowning man clutching a life belt.
John lifted the decanter.
“What do you say—a nightcap?”
Her earlier nausea seemed to have passed, but she still felt a chill when she thought of how she’d allowed herself to get frightened in the bedroom. She held out her glass for him to pour, and motioned for more when John looked like stopping.
“If I’m to get to sleep in this place, I’ll need some false courage.”
John smiled.
“Don’t tell me it’s got you spooked already?”
She hadn’t gone into detail of what she’d felt earlier—it had sounded silly enough inside her head without having to give voice to it. But she’d already resolved not to leave John’s side during this visit—not in the dark at any case.
Whatever was overhead fluttered again, louder than before, and with enough force to disturb some dust and send it showering down toward them. Carole tried to peer into the shadows above, but couldn’t see any movement. She downed the liquor fast, enjoying the warm heat of it as it hit her stomach—but it didn’t dispel the cold chill in her spine as she followed John back upstairs to the bedroom.
= 5 '
John couldn’t sleep. Carole had hit the pillow and been gone almost immediately, but John lay on his back, watching the play of shadow in the room, which was considerably darker than he was used to in London. There were no streetlights here, and no passing cars to throw headlights across the walls. Rain continued to rat-a-tat against the windows, and the main source of light was what little came under the door from the hallway outside. And soon even that was gone as someone—probably the butler—switched off the landing lights.
He needed this story. He hadn’t told anyone—not even Carole—just how much he wanted it. Since he’d decided to be a writer—more than a decade ago now and in what felt like another lifetime—he’d been looking for the big one, the break that would lead to the high life, name in lights, fortune and glory stuff. At an intellectual level he knew that those kinds of deals were all too rare, but emotionally he felt it like a pain in his gut. And when those deals did come along, they mostly went on ghostwritten celebrity exposes—or on celebrity biographies. Hugh Fraser’s star might have faded since his heyday in the sixties, but he was still sufficiently known for any new information about his sudden death to be newsworthy. John was banking on it. But first
he had to tease out what Blacklaw knew, and the glacial speed at which that was proceeding was enough to have him stifling a scream.
The house fell quiet and the darkness got deeper still, but still sleep evaded him. It was the photographs—that last black-and-white series in the crypt—he could not get the images out of his mind. It was all he could do to stop himself from barging into the old man’s bedroom and demanding some answers as to what had been going on.
Instead he tried to distract his racing mind with games and puzzles while lying on his back staring at the dark, working out complex square roots, or trying to come up with cast or crew connections between disparate movies or television shows.
All that served to do was keep him awake longer.
He had no way of measuring the passing of time beyond counting the beats of his heart, and on his first attempt he lost track of the total at somewhere over a thousand when his mind returned again to the photographs.
Finally he realized that he was wide awake. Sleep was even further away than it had been when he’d crawled beneath the covers. Carole moaned and punched her pillow, but didn’t wake as he rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and stood, staring into the mirror for long seconds.
There was a thud from the bedroom, and he expected to go through to see Carole getting up. But she was still asleep, showing no signs of having moved. The thud came again, and this time he identified the source—it came from the window, as if someone was rapping softly on it from the outside.
But we’re fifteen feet up at least.
He pulled back the curtains and looked out, but it was too dark to see anything but the rain. There was no recurrence of the sound so he shrugged it off—it might have been only a bird, or a bat, lost in the dark and inclement weather. Blacklaw’s words of earlier came back to him.
Bats in the belfry.
He dressed quickly and quietly and slipped out of the door into the hallway. He was making for the library, in the hope that the butler might have left the decanter and glasses there. A stiff drink might be enough to calm his racing thoughts and let him finally get some sleep.
The House on the Moor Page 2