by Guy Adams
I woke early, with the beginnings of dawn breaking through a gap in the curtains and landing on the bed. It was an unhealthy, grey light and the sight of it brought me no pleasure or anticipation for the day ahead. I put on my slippers and went in search of hot water.
The landlady was stood in the middle of her kitchen, staring into space as if utterly empty of character. I imagined her having stood that way all night, awaiting orders to bring her once more back to life. Her deep thoughts were interrupted by the sound of my feet on a creaking floorboard and she snapped to attention, giving me a somewhat unfriendly look and returning to her morning tasks.
“I wondered if I might have some hot water?” I asked, feeling, quite ridiculously, that such a thing was an imposition.
She nodded. “I’ll bring some up to you, sir,” she said. “Will you and your companions be wanting breakfast?”
“I imagine so,” I replied. Then, self-consciously feeling I had to justify why I was making such demands at the early hour. “We have a lot planned for the day so an early start is always good.”
“Been awake hours,” she said, “a woman’s work is never done.”
“No,” I responded, awkwardly. “I imagine not.”
We both stood there for a few moments of uncomfortable silence. Then finally I decided one of us had to take the initiative or I’d never get back to my room. “Shall I take the water back up with me?” I asked. “It’s no trouble.”
“I said I’d bring it up,” she replied, “and so I will.” She set about filling a large pan from the tap over the sink and, feeling I’d been dismissed, I returned to my room and sat on the bed to wait. I could hear sounds of movement from next door and concluded that Silence was also awake. I thought about knocking on his door but was distracted by the arrival of the hot water.
I washed cautiously over the basin and dried myself off quickly, it was far too cold to linger.
Finally, dressed and feeling I had thoroughly scrubbed away the day and night before, I left my room and went to check on the others. Silence was, indeed, awake though by the look of him only barely. Perhaps he was like Holmes in that he was not a morning person. I have my years in the army to thank for the fact that, once my eyes open, I am invariably as sharp as a tack. I arranged to meet Silence downstairs for breakfast in three-quarters of an hour.
There was no reply from Carnacki’s room so I went downstairs to check with the landlady that breakfast would be convenient for the time I had arranged and then left the building, meaning to get a little morning air and a sense of my surroundings.
I have spoken of my love of London and, certainly, that is undiminished. The crispness of the Scottish air was most refreshing, however, a sharp and fresh taste in my mouth as I strode forth from the guesthouse and along the road towards the station.
Inverness was in its stride already, the shop doors open and the delivery boys racing to and fro on their bicycles. In the distance I could see the signs of a street market filling out and I considered visiting it before settling for something a little more peaceful and heading away from the centre towards the river. The red brick of Inverness Castle gleamed in that early morning light and, as I walked along the banks of the Ness, getting my thoughts in order and imagining what may lie ahead, I began to feel as content as I can remember. I would face whatever the day might bring, and I would do so with conviction and strength, however shocking it might be. Whatever lay ahead my restless night had convinced me of one thing: I had already faced the worst thing in life a man can bear, the death of someone he loves. Whatever else may come along it certainly wouldn’t be as painful as that.
I picked up a newspaper on my return to the guesthouse, glancing through the main articles as I checked Carnacki’s room once again (still no sign of the man) and then took a seat in the dining room to wait for Silence. He arrived shortly after, looking fresher now that he had washed and dressed.
“I hope you at least slept well, Doctor?” he asked.
“Actually,” I replied, “I passed an abominable night, but hopefully the effects will soon pass with a decent breakfast inside me.”
The landlady brought us a bowl of porridge each, thick as glue and salty to taste. I can’t say I was enamoured of it and dearly hoped it would be a prelude to something better rather than a solitary course.
I told Silence about the night’s revelation that our rooms had not been booked by Holmes as I had initially suspected but rather by Crowley himself. This was clearly news to him also, so I was left with the previous night’s conclusion which I shared with Silence: Holmes must have wired Crowley in advance of our travelling and had matters arranged on our behalf. That would certainly explain why no provision had been made for Carnacki.
“Have you seen Carnacki this morning?” I asked Silence.
“No,” he said, “I assumed he would be joining us shortly.”
“Not unless he includes mind-reading in that not inconsiderable list of his abilities,” I said. “I haven’t been able to raise him.”
SIlence looked concerned. “Do you think he’s all right?”
“Having listened to him talk last night, I get the impression he’s damn near impregnable. I imagine he is simply sleeping in and I don’t intend to worry until after breakfast. That’s as long as there is more to come.”
Thankfully there was, bacon and eggs that wiped away the memory of the porridge after only a couple of mouthfuls.
It was as the landlady brought us a second pot of coffee that Carnacki appeared, looking as immaculate as ever.
“We started without you I’m afraid,” I said, pouring him a cup of coffee.
“I breakfasted earlier,” he announced, “the landlady was kind enough to give me the use of her kitchen for half an hour before the rest of the house awoke.”
“Oh,” I said, “up with the lark then?”
“I don’t enjoy sleep,” he replied, “it reminds me a little too much of death.”
“A cheery thought to start the day,” I commented.
“Here’s another: during the night someone tried to kill me.”
Both Silence and I were dumbfounded at this.
“I am extremely lucky,” Carnacki continued, “that I enjoy a hard bed and found the offering of our charming landlady to be inadequate in that regard.
“After having retired from your company, I sat down to write some notes on the day’s experiences,” he held up a small, leather-bound journal. “I keep copious notes as one day I intend to compile a series of volumes covering the entirety of my professional career.” He glanced in my direction. “For sure, if I don’t tackle the job myself someone else will, and I would hate being at the mercy of a sloppy biographer.
“I had just begun establishing the details of the attack – and my remarkable defence – in the dining carriage when I heard the sound of someone moving around in the corridor outside our rooms. Initially I assumed it was the landlady, perhaps checking that we had turned off the gas, or whatever concerns parsimonious hosts in this part of the country. However, on closer attendance I could tell it was the footstep of a man, the tread was too heavy to be that of our landlady and there was the distinct creak of new shoe leather.
“I dropped to my knees by the door and looked out through the keyhole but, unsurprisingly, it was too dark to catch a glimpse of our late-night wanderer. I decided it was likely unimportant, it may simply have been one of the other guests, disturbed by our arrival.”
“Are there any other guests?” I wondered, certainly none had as yet appeared for breakfast.
“Whoever it was,” Carnacki continued, “they left the house and made their way up the street, I saw them from my window, but couldn’t swear to any great detail, they were wearing a top hat and carrying a cane. That’s all I could say for sure.”
It occurred to me that I had seen the same figure and that Carnacki had likely mistaken Holmes for his mysterious intruder. Which, from Carnacki’s point of view, I suppose he was.
&nbs
p; “Returning to my notes, I wrote for maybe another half an hour or so and then arranged a pair of blankets and the pillow on the floor. The bed was between myself and the door, a fact I would later be grateful for.
“I was woken at around three by the noise of footsteps once again outside my room. There was a scraping noise at the lock as whoever it was outside attempted to pick it. It was no difficult task, I had inspected the locks when retiring and considered them barely sufficient for the name. My would-be assassin certainly made a meal of it, however. They may be comfortable with the crime of murder but they had certainly never tried breaking and entering before. After a couple of minutes I nearly got up to let them in, better that than lie there listening to their ineptitude.
“Thankfully I was saved that embarrassment by their finally rolling back the tumblers and gaining access. The door opened slowly and quietly. As there was no light in the corridor outside I was unable to discern the shape of the intruder. My curtains were drawn tight and there was no moonlight to help in either my recognition of the stranger or their desire to assassinate me. I heard the man’s feet come a few steps into the room, then I heard him tap the edge of the bed with his foot. There was a dull noise, a hoarse cough, and the man retreated instantly, closing the door behind him. I gave it a few moments, just in case he had yet to leave, but I heard the sound of another door in the hall open and then close and I guessed that he had entered one of the other rooms. Obviously, the man was a resident like ourselves.
“I lit a candle and examined the bed. It was showered with feathers and there was a small hole top centre. The unknown assailant had fired a small calibre bullet at where he imagined my head to be, using a pillow folded around the muzzle of the gun as a method of silencing the shot. Further investigation revealed that he had dropped the pillow outside my door. I was tempted to knock on every door and have a confrontation there and then on the landing but, giving it some thought, I decided I would have no end of difficulty proving who the assailant was and little was to be gained from my alerting them immediately as to their failure. If nothing else it allowed me to conclude my sleep in peace.”
“But,” I said, “this is incredible, who would want you killed?”
“Ah,” Carnacki replied, “that’s where things get even more complicated. I’m rather afraid a man like me is no stranger to enemies. It could be something to do with this current case, but equally it could be an ancient grudge. There are a number of fellows who might wish to see me dead.”
Can’t think why, I thought to myself. Choosing to be more tactful aloud, I said: “We must be grateful they didn’t succeed.”
“Indeed,” agreed Silence.
The sound of the doorbell rang throughout the lower floor and I watched our landlady shuffle towards the front door in clear irritation. She was not cut out for this job, I decided. If people irritate you as much as they clearly did her, you are best avoiding them entirely.
“Yes?” she asked of whoever was at the door.
The reply, given in a voice much quieter than her angry bark, wasn’t heard. Though we were to know soon enough as she showed the man into the dining room.
“Your carriage is here, sirs,” she said. “Now mind I haven’t been paid for these rooms before you go dashing off.”
I asked her how much we owed her for her charming company and rooms and we settled our bills accordingly.
On the doorstep stood a thin, cheerful-looking fellow by the name of Charles. “Here to drive you to Boleskine,” he said. “Want a hand with your bags?”
“Just a couple of minutes to go and grab them,” I replied, as the others went to pack their things. “I’m afraid we weren’t informed that you would be coming.”
“Aye,” said Charles, “that sounds like the boss right enough, always got his head in the clouds that one.” It suddenly occurred to him that maybe he was speaking out of turn, a worried look passing over his face. “In a manner of speaking at least,” he said, “I mean no ill by it.”
I gave him a smile and patted him reassuringly on the arm. “Don’t worry,” I said, “speak as freely as you like, I don’t know the man from Adam.” I had been hoping, as I’d often seen Holmes do in similar circumstances, that this attempt to befriend the man would lead to a few more revelations about Crowley. I was to be disappointed. Charles seemed genuinely worried that he may have off ended his employer and was far too concerned to utter another word. Cursing what I took to be my own ham-fisted attempts at winning the fellow over I went to collect my own belongings.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE LAIRD OF BOLESKINE
Soon we were on the road out of Inverness and commencing what would be an interminably long ride along the shores of Loch Ness towards the village of Foyers.
I suppose, had the mood been different, then I would have found the Loch a beautiful place. On that drive, however, I found its flat grey waters a dismal sight. The weather was gloomy, rain attempting to wash away the thick snow, and it lent everything a feeling of oppression.
I watched a sparrowhawk ride a terrified finch through the damp air, its talons digging into the smaller bird’s back as it surfed the currents, tiring out its prey. I am not normally sensitive to nature’s cruelty but that day it left a sour taste, and I stopped looking out of the window.
My travelling companions seemed no less affected by the atmosphere. Silence lived up to his name, while Carnacki seemed ensconced in reading his notes of investigations past. None of us attempted to strike up a conversation and, for perhaps the first time, it became clear that all three of us travelled together through convenience rather than desire. We didn’t know each other, nor did we have any great wish to. We were always destined to be polite strangers.
I took the time offered to write to Holmes, detailing all that happened since we had parted company the night before, including as much detail as I could, knowing how he always loved hearing all the minutiae. It was no easy task in the shaking carriage but I decided I didn’t need to apologise in the letter for my appalling handwriting, certainly Holmes would have decided the manner in which it had been written before he got past the envelope.
Eventually, after nearly three hours of the carriage being buffeted by the poor road surface and the inhospitable wind, we went through a grand archway. Riding past a small, stone gatehouse, the track led us up above the road. We passed another building – a separate guest house, I would later discover, called Brown Lodge – and, more alarmingly, a graveyard. “He keeps cheerful company,” I joked.
As the house came into view I confess I was momentarily taken aback by how grand it was. Two double-storied buildings stood on either side of the entrance courtyard, a single-storied building connecting them and completing the angular C shape. Its owner would insist on referring to it as a manor house, a phrase which did nothing to convey its grandiosity. But then, the same could be said of its owner. Crowley was never anything less than the consummate publicist and in the years that would follow he would become famous even outside those occult circles in which he moved, feared and admired in almost equal measure by a populace that would one day relish in calling him “the wickedest man in the world”.
“Gentlemen!” called a voice from the main entrance and I took a moment to appreciate my first sight of the man who would go on to such notoriety. It was a light voice, and his was a soft, young face. Dressed in full Highland dress, Aleister Crowley was not the man I had imagined him to be, and in that perhaps I hit on something that would be a constant in his life. Most frequently through the creation of a public persona almost entirely at odds with reality, Aleister Crowley would forever be other than what you might imagine.
Today he was a man of great geniality, striding out into the rain to open the door to the carriage and welcome us down. “So glad you’re finally here,” he said, “you must be sorely in need of warmth and food, both of which I am happy to offer!”
He waved at a tall, thin man who I took to be his butler. “The bags please,
McGillicuddy,” he said, ushering us into the building ahead of him.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said, “most welcome.” A housekeeper bustled forth, taking our hats and coats while Crowley led us along a lengthy corridor that appeared to extend the entire length of the house. “If only there were a less damaging method of seeing you to my door,” he said as we filed into a large reception room, massive fire blazing while the stuffed heads of big game looked on. I found myself reminded of Lord Ruthvney’s office and the mental association put me even further on edge. “Hopefully you were at least recovered from the train journey thanks to the sour ministrations of Unsworth Guest House?” He laughed and waved for us to sit down, dropping into a leather armchair himself.
“It was most kind of you to arrange it, sir,” I said, happy to speak on behalf of us all. “Though I confess we were a little taken aback that you were expecting us.”
“Now,” said Crowley with a smile, “what sort of practitioner of Magick would I be had I not been expecting you?”
I politely returned the smile. “I thought perhaps that my colleague, Mr Sherlock Holmes, had contacted you.”
“I’ve never heard from him,” said Crowley and, with a somewhat irritated tone I noted, he added, “what is more it appears that I never shall. I had hoped he would be with you.”
“It is his intention to return as soon as he can,” I explained, “but important business called him back to London.”
“Ah yes,” Crowley replied, “what it is to be at the mercy of ‘important business’.”
“Perhaps he simply tired of our company,” said Carnacki, “or felt the situation was beyond him.” He got to his feet and extended his hand to Crowley for shaking. “Thomas Carnacki,” he said, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“I am only too aware who you are,” Crowley assured him, shaking the hand.
“Really? How gratifying.” Carnacki turned his back towards the fire, warming himself. “You’re in terrible danger you know.”