Kissing Toads

by Jemma Harvey

  ‘What are you doing? Can’t you put the bloody light on?’

  ‘I’m testing for physical signs of the supernatural. It’s something that works better in the dark.’ He found a switch and light flooded the hall. There was a kind of camera on a side table, and various bits of technology scattered around.

  ‘Imbecile!’ I said furiously. I don’t like being scared, especially when it isn’t necessary. ‘I thought you were a ghost – except I don’t believe in them. I might have taken you for a burglar and attacked you.’

  ‘I don’t think you should attack more than one person per day,’ Ash said with a faint – a very faint – hint of a smile. He doesn’t do smiling much.

  ‘It would have been self-defence,’ I said, ‘like with Basilisa. What is all this stuff? Do you seriously expect to get a picture of a hooded figure clanking chains and going Woo?’

  ‘The camera’s a control. You activated it when you got near enough; there’s an infrared flash. The object is to prove the hall’s empty while I run the tape.’ He indicated another gadget resembling a tape recorder.

  ‘What’s that for?’ I wasn’t very interested; the question was a reflex.

  ‘An experiment. It’s supposed to pick up sounds we can’t hear – voices from the past, the whispers of the dead. It may work; it may not. Researchers have claimed success with it from time to time. I like to explore all possibilities.’ He’d switched the machine off while we were talking. ‘You’re up late. Are you all right?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ I said. ‘I came down to get a drink or something.’ I’d had a half-formed project of waking up Harry to order tea or cocoa, because, after all, waiting on people was his job, but I didn’t want to do it with Ash there.

  We went into the drawing room and he opened the drinks cabinet. ‘I’m guessing you’re not keen on Scotch?’

  ‘No. Gin and tonic.’ There was a small fridge adjacent to the cabinet for mixers, champagne and anything else that required chilling, concealed behind a walnut door. ‘Lots of tonic.’

  While he poured, I asked, ‘Do you really believe in ghosts? Not just memories – real spirits that come back after death?’

  He threw me a swift, sharp look. ‘I keep hoping. My mother claimed to remember former lives, though she was as high as a kite much of the time. She was no historian, yet some of her recollections chimed perfectly with factual records – I researched them later. My grandmother had the Sight; my great-aunt was a medium. It’s in the family. I have . . . curiosity. I believe there are other worlds which touch on ours, but I’m always looking for more evidence. After all, it’s the ultimate question, isn’t it? What happens next?’

  ‘D’you think there are actual ghosts here?’ I asked. Perhaps I should add him to my list of useful gays. At least he was different.

  ‘I . . . yes.’ He handed me my drink. ‘The atmosphere in Dunblair is rather overcrowded – too many people, too many tensions – but when I’m alone, I feel something. A consciousness, or more than one. Brooding – malice – guilt. An urge to communicate. But it may all be in my imagination.’

  ‘I’ve felt something too,’ I said, suddenly eager. ‘Playing Elizabeth Courtney, I’ve sort of got close to her. When I look at her portrait, it seems almost . . . alive. We have to find out what happened to her – how she died.’

  ‘A whodunnit,’ Ash said. ‘Maybe ghosts want justice, or some kind of exoneration. Have you tried the standard detective approach? Who benefited from her death?’ As he spoke, he took a beer from the fridge and flipped off the cap with a can-opener.

  I sat down for a minute.

  ‘The husband, of course,’ I said. ‘He inherited a fortune. But he was broken-hearted and went off to Africa and died tragically, so it didn’t do him much good. Indirectly . . . his family, I suppose. The mother and the long-lost cousin, especially the cousin. He got the castle and the money in the end. But he was on another continent when Elizabeth died.’

  ‘What about the other woman – the one Alasdair abandoned? Lately played by your friend Brie.’

  Did I see him wince at the thought?

  ‘I like that idea,’ I said. ‘Revenge is always good. And she married the cousin in the end, so she got the castle and Elizabeth’s money too, though she couldn’t have known things would work out that way.’

  ‘Pity the cousin was abroad for the murder,’ Ash said. ‘Otherwise they could have planned it together.’

  ‘Maybe he wasn’t,’ I said slowly. ‘Maybe he was here . . . in disguise. Alasdair was with him when he died – some tropical fever. Supposing that was murder, too? Out in the wild somewhere, it would’ve been really easy to cover it up. He didn’t dare claim his inheritance until the mother was dead, but after that he had a clear field. Come home, get the castle and the dosh, marry the girl – they were in cahoots all along.’

  ‘It’s a theory,’ Ash said. ‘Talk to Nigel. There might be some documentary evidence on the cousin’s movements. We don’t even know his name, do we?’

  ‘I’ll find out.’

  I was sure I was right – or almost sure. It all fitted so well – if the cousin had been in Scotland. Thinking about the mystery, I headed back upstairs, leaving Ash to his experiments. (I must discourage Roo from spending time with him. For a gay guy, he acted awfully straight.)

  I lingered in the purple gallery to finish my drink. The lip sofa wasn’t very comfortable, but there was a chair on the same lines, shaped like a yawning mouth with a cushiony red tongue lolling out. I sat down in it, tucking my feet under me; it encased me like a large squishy bowl. Thanks to the central heating, the room was warm; a lamp at my side cast a soft pinkish glow. I set down my glass on a low table and curled up, letting my imagination drift back into the past. At some point, I fell asleep.

  I dreamed.

  We all have dreams which seem to mean something from time to time. I had a recurring one after my father left, where I was in a crowded room, trying to reach him, calling out, but he never heard me, never saw me – he just went on talking, and the people got in my way until I was pushed out of the room, on my own. There was another version where I was following him down the street: he walked and I ran, but I never caught up. The dreams stopped after I visited him in the South of France. Anyway, this dream must have come from my conversation with Ash, an idea that got into my subconscious and took over. It was the kind where you don’t know you’re dreaming, which makes it very vivid and frightening, though I wasn’t sure what there was to be afraid of.

  I was in the gallery, but Basilisa’s décor had gone. Instead there were dingy paintings, heavy curtains, hulks of furniture that looked as if no one had moved them for centuries. My chair was no longer squishy: the upholstery was worn, coarse against my skin. There was very little light. At the far end of the room, two people were talking. A man and a woman. The man had his back to me: he looked tall and dark, but under those conditions, anyone would. He was wearing a long coat with a shoulder-cape, or maybe it was a cloak; I couldn’t be sure which. The woman was much shorter. She held a candle. Mostly, his body screened her from my sight, but at one stage she moved, or he did, and I saw her face. She was very young – not a woman but a girl, seventeen or so. Young enough for it not to matter that she wasn’t wearing make-up. Her face was beautiful, in a full-lipped, sensuous sort of way; she had very dark brows and lashes, dark hair (I think), cheeks flushed with natural colour. Her expression was eager, nervous, desperate, bold . . .

  They were talking about committing a murder.

  I don’t recall many of the words, just the tone of their voices: hers all breathy and panting, his low-pitched, even, urgent. I didn’t catch the name of the victim, or the method of killing – only a sense of conspiracy, a stolen meeting, hugger-mugger, intent on crime. They were lovers, I knew that, though they never kissed, never touched. Lovers planning to kill. A slow dread crept over me, a cold, paralysing feeling, like you’re supposed to get in the presence of evil. And evil was present, evil
was them – the shadowy form of the man, the girl, young, so young, with her vivid, passionate face.

  I woke abruptly, shivering in spite of the warmth, started out of the chair. But the gallery was empty. I made myself relax and leave without haste to show I wasn’t scared. There was nobody there, but I had to prove it to myself. The dread still hung on, left over from the dream. It was irrational, of course; the couple were just phantoms of my imagination, the by-product of my talk with Ash. The McGoogle cousin and the girl Alasdair had jilted . . . It seemed to make sense, or half-sense, but I couldn’t be sure. (That was love in her face, first love, the Juliet syndrome – not the drive for revenge.)

  I decided to discuss it with Roo in the morning. The next day was Sunday, and Sunday was our day off. Plenty of time to talk.

  Back at my door I opened it without trying to be quiet, but Alex didn’t stir. Fenny leaped off the quilt and rushed to greet me, and I shed my dressing gown and got into bed, snuggling up to the puppy instead of my fiancé.

  Thankfully, I had no more dreams.

  Chapter 7:

  Rescue Party

  Delphinium

  I gatecrashed Roo’s bedroom in the morning to tell her about my dream. I wanted to discuss it now, I couldn’t wait, though her reception of it was sceptical. ‘It was probably just your imagination doing overtime,’ she said. ‘Still, we should tell Ash about it. Analysing dreams is bound to be one of his skills.’

  Ash, however, was really interested.

  ‘Our conversation beforehand must have stimulated your subconscious,’ he said, ‘but that doesn’t mean the dream was a lie. Your state of mind might have made you more receptive to an echo from the past. Do you remember any of their actual words?’

  ‘She was saying something about . . . they must do it quickly. Not later than tomorrow night. Then I think he repeated “Tomorrow night” . . . I didn’t catch any more.’

  ‘Are you sure it was murder they were planning?’ Roo queried doubtfully.

  ‘Of course I’m sure. It wasn’t what they said – I just knew. You know how you do in dreams. Besides, there was this feeling of evil . . .’

  ‘And you think it was Elizabeth Courtney they were plotting to kill?’ Ash persisted. I hesitated. ‘There’ve been a lot of murders here in the past. You have plenty to choose from.’

  ‘What were their clothes like?’ Roo said. ‘Assuming you were dreaming with historical accuracy, that should help us to date it.’

  ‘It was too dark to tell,’ I explained. ‘Long. He had a coat or cloak; she was in a long dress. Full skirt, tight waist. Could have been Victorian.’

  ‘If it was Elizabeth’s murder they were planning, you think the girl had to be her rival – Alasdair’s ex?’ Ash said thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes. Do we know her name?’

  ‘Iona Craig.’ This was Nigel, joining in. Despite his lack of sex appeal, his historical expertise might come in useful. I wasn’t certain how he would react to my dream, but he put it down to my dramatic flair and went along with the rest of us.

  ‘She looked awfully young,’ I said. ‘Sixteen or seventeen. Would that fit the facts?’

  ‘It does indeed,’ Nigel said. ‘Iona was barely seventeen when Alasdair deserted her for Elizabeth. We have no pictures of her at that age, but there’s a portrait done after her marriage to the laird about eight years later. It’s in the main drawing room. You’ve probably seen it.’

  ‘I don’t notice things like that,’ I said. ‘Even if I did, I wouldn’t have known who it was.’

  ‘It’s possible to absorb details without realising it,’ Nigel said, sounding maddeningly pompous. ‘You may have known more than you thought you knew.’ And, to Ash, ‘Wouldn’t you agree? After all, mediums and other supposed psychics depend on the clues people inadvertently let fall to give the impression of telepathic awareness. Their target rarely appreciates how much she, or he, has given away. This could be a similar effect, in reverse. Delphinium may not realise how much she has assimilated.’

  Ash was non-committal. ‘Let’s take a look at the picture.’

  It was just one gloomy Victorian portrait among many, the kind of thing you see in old houses, when the artist isn’t famous enough for it to be worth selling. I’d seen it before, but without seeing it, if you know what I mean. Its subject was light years apart from the girl in my dream – the girl with her breathlessness and her beauty and her suppressed passion. Nonetheless, there was a sort of likeness: the colouring, the shape of the face, the fullness of the mouth, set now in the demure lines the painter considered suitable for her age and station. It was less than ten years later, but she looked all lady-of-the-manor, the kind of person you could imagine in church on a Sunday, or sitting at the head of the table being charming to her husband’s friends. It was the same woman, I was sure – the girl I had dreamed, the conspirator, the murderess. But I didn’t think my subconscious could have invented the girl after half noticing the picture even if I’d known who it was. The portrait was dull; the girl in my dream, whatever else she might have been, hadn’t looked dull at all.

  ‘What about the man?’ Roo said. ‘Is there a painting of Alasdair’s cousin – if it was him?’

  ‘I only saw his back,’ I pointed out. ‘Even if a picture exists, it wouldn’t mean a thing to me.’

  These enigmatic dreams can be very irritating. They never give you enough information.

  ‘There are a couple of pictures of Archie McGoogle,’ Nigel told us. ‘He bore a strong resemblance to his cousin Alasdair, though he was older and not so handsome. Of course, living in Africa had had its effect on him: he was sallow and weather-beaten and had survived various fevers, including malaria. One of the pictures is in the old hall now.’

  We trooped after him, feeling investigative, although, as I said, Archie’s image wouldn’t convey much.

  There were two paintings side by side. The smaller one showed Alasdair, looking quite young and very good-looking (for a portrait), despite the sideburns that made him resemble someone out of an old seventies TV series. He had light brown hair, blue eyes, a cleft in his chin worthy of the Douglas family (I remarked on this and said there might be a connection, since Douglas is a Scottish name, but Roo said they made it up and they’re Jewish like everyone else in Hollywood). Next to him Archie McGoogle, painted when he became the Laird, had the faded yellow complexion of last year’s tan, greying hair, the same blue eyes though slightly lighter (possibly an effect of the tan), a flourishing moustache, and a sporran on his chin which passed for a beard. The Victorians, of course, were big on beards; I think it had to do with the British Empire, and the men having to be so macho. Male-dominated societies always do beards: it’s because all guys hate shaving, and in a social system where they have the edge they don’t feel they have to placate the women. (The Romans were generally clean-shaven, but then, half of them were gay.)

  You’d think in a nation ruled by a woman the girls would have got more of a look-in. Fat chance. These mad female supreme rulers all like to surround themselves with men: it’s a perk of the job. Elizabeth I had Raleigh and Drake and the one she executed by accident (Essex boy?) and the one played by Joseph Fiennes in the film. Victoria had various prime ministers like Gladstone and Disraeli and that Scottish guy who was her butler or pool cleaner or something. Maggie Thatcher had the Tory party. (Elizabeth II’s different, but she isn’t really a supreme ruler so she doesn’t count.) Put a woman at the top, and the testosterone count of the whole country goes up. Instead of becoming more sensitive and caring, men become more . . . well, male. Maybe it’s some kind of reaction. Female leader equals macho society. Strange but true.

  I thought of mentioning this to Nigel, as it’s the sort of concept he would be bound to go for, but decided against it. It would only lead the conversation round to sex again.

  Anyway, Nigel was really hitting his stride, showing us even more dreary pix of past McGoogles, and explaining their relationships to each other and whatever dir
ty deeds they had deeded. One of them was Lady Mary McGoogle, Alasdair’s tragic mother, dressed tragically in black from the day her daughter-in-law disappeared. Somebody should have told her unrelieved black is very unflattering for the older woman. But it was probably Victoria’s fault: she set the trend. Another thing about female supreme rulers is they never have any fashion sense. Elizabeth I went in for those spangly stand-up collars and vast skirts that seem to be made from upholstery; Victoria wore the crinoline and the bustle (how did you sit down in a bustle?); Maggie Thatcher had shoulder pads and big hairspray. The supreme-ruler gene obviously comes hand in hand with another labelled fashion accident. Of course, if you’re supreme-rulering, no one’s going to tell you you look a twit, for fear of being decapitated.

  When the lecture tour was over we got back to Elizabeth’s murder and the big issue of whodunnit.

  ‘If it was Iona,’ Nigel insisted, ‘the motive had to be revenge. Elizabeth stole the man she loved. Remember, he was also the local laird: it would have been a very good match for her, by the standards of the day. Her family were respectable but their social status was lower than the McGoogles and they had no money to speak of.’

  ‘Then why was Lady Mary so keen on the marriage?’ Roo said. ‘You’d think she’d prefer her son getting off with an heiress like Elizabeth. You said the McGoogles weren’t rich.’

  ‘No, they weren’t. But you’re forgetting that Lady Mary was a woman of her time. She’d been brought up in the strict Christian ideology of the Scottish Presbyterian Church. She believed Alasdair was committed to Iona, even though there had been no formal engagement, and contemporary morality was inflexible. Alasdair’s attachment to Iona was known and accepted; for him to back off, as he did, was considered extremely dishonourable. Records show some local dignitaries actually cut him, though they seem to have changed their minds when invited to his wedding with Elizabeth. Her fortune might have helped to reinstate him in their eyes, I suspect.’

  ‘What happened to it when she died?’ Roo asked. ‘If no body was found, could Alasdair inherit?’