Voice In The Mist
Published by
Librario Publishing Ltd
ISBN: 1-904440-83-5
ISBN (EBK): 978-1-906775-64-3
Copies can be ordered via the Internet
www.librario.com
or from:
Brough House, Milton Brodie, Kinloss
Moray IV36 2UA
Tel /Fax No 00 44 (0)1343 850 617
© 2007
Nigel Cubbage has asserted his right to be identified as the Author of this Work. No part of this book may be reproduced without the author’s permission.
Voice In The Mist
By
Nigel Cubbage
Librario
Contents
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1 – Rahsaig Castle
CHAPTER 2 – The Woman In The Crimson Dress
CHAPTER 3 – The voice in the mist
CHAPTER 4 – The Attic
CHAPTER 5 – On Shadow Island
CHAPTER 6 – The Face At The Window
CHAPTER 7 – The Flight Of The Bonnie Prince
CHAPTER 8 – Lying In Wait
CHAPTER 9 – Locked In The Crypt
CHAPTER 10 – The Storm
CHAPTER 11 – Rum Castle
CHAPTER 12 – In The Dead Of Night
CHAPTER 13 – Stealing Statues
CHAPTER 14 – The Pledge
CHAPTER 15 – The Last Great Wilderness
CHAPTER 16 – The Old Ruin
CHAPTER 17 – The Sanctuary
CHAPTER 18 – The Prisoner In The Tower
CHAPTER 19 – Message In A Bottle
CHAPTER 20 – The Lighthouse
CHAPTER 21 – Over The Sea To Skye
CHAPTER 22 – The Bogus Laird
CHAPTER 23 – Moonlight Run
CHAPTER 24 – The Oubliette
CHAPTER 25 – The Reckoning
CHAPTER 26 – True Selves
CHAPTER 27 – One Last Question
CHAPTER 28 – The Unfinished Journal
CHAPTER 29 – Coming Home
Librario
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nigel Cubbage was born in 1960 in Solihull. He went to school in Coventry and graduated from Wolverhampton Poly in 1982. He has worked in television all his life, joining Central TV and ITN before moving to BBC Scotland and into the independent sector.
“Voice in the Mist” is his first book and introduces the teenage detective heroine Rebecca McOwan, who first entered the author’s thoughts on an island in the Outer Hebrides one sleepy summer’s evening.
Nigel lives in Surrey with his wife and three young children.
DEDICATION
To Kitty, Aliya, Stanley and Betty
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To all those who have helped me to write this book, I owe a huge debt of thanks.
To those friends and family who have read, suggested and encouraged.
To Mum, for not minding about the name.
To the late, great Sorley McLean, Gaelic poet.
To Knoydart, Skye and the western highlands, for being there.
And finally, and most of all to Kitty, for her wisdom and intuition, for putting up with this ambition for so long and to whom I owe so much for so many things.
PROLOGUE
On the rugged coast of Knoydart in the wilderness of the Scottish Highlands, a fierce storm was raging. A beautiful young woman in a long crimson dress was stumbling along a high, jagged cliff-top, her face stricken with fear. Slipping and sliding on the uneven, soaking ground, she kept turning to look over her shoulder, scanning the path behind with wild eyes. Above the raging of the wind she heard hounds barking. The woman clasped her hand to her chest, gasping for breath. Black hair was streaked across her pale, rain-soaked face. A small golden locket around her neck was suddenly whipped across her cheeks by the wind. She clutched at it, numbed fingers fumbling it back into her collar.
A short distance behind, a group of kilted men with dogs on long leashes were in pursuit, led by a tall man in a long military coat. The men were armed with swords and muskets. While the others slipped and struggled to keep their footing on the treacherous rocks, the tall man strode on relentlessly, setting a pace his companions could barely match.
The young woman staggered on, searching desperately for a place to hide. In panic, she found she had come to the end of the ridge. The sea was crashing onto the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. Out of land she now had no option but to turn and face her pursuers. As this realisation dawned, she seemed paralysed, her whole body shaking with fear. With her back to the sea, she clasped her hands together in prayer.
Seconds later, the leading hound leaped over a rocky outcrop just a few yards away, snarling savagely, quickly followed by more dogs and the men. As the woman screamed in terror, two men were upon her. They grabbed her arms and dragged her forward to the edge of the cliff where she slumped to the ground.
“On your feet!” cried a black-bearded man, holding the leashes of two mighty hounds, which were slavering and fighting to get free, their jaws snapping close to the woman’s face. She shrank backwards, certain she would be torn apart if they were loosed.
The tall man, who had been standing a few yards off, staring at the crashing seas, now strode forward. He grabbed her roughly by the hair, pulling her to her feet. As she sobbed, shaking and pleading for mercy, he stared at her for what seemed like ages with dead eyes. He touched his finger to a long scar on his neck.
Suddenly and with no warning, he snatched the locket from around her neck, seized her shoulders with both hands and shoved her with all his might. The woman staggered, a look of terror and disbelief on her face, before she lost her balance and fell backwards over the edge and down, down. Her scream hung in the air.
The tall man stepped forward to the edge of the cliff and peered over, his face impassive. The crumpled form of the young woman now lay lifeless on the rocks below. The man opened the locket and stared at a small portrait inside. A faint smile flickered about the corners of his mouth and was gone in an instant. He snapped the locket shut, turned on his heel and strode back past his men without a glance.
CHAPTER 1 – Rahsaig Castle
Gathering mist hides a clear silver pool
Where the taunt of bold Hakon doth play ye the fool
Whispering waters, Phoebus in cloud
Where time has stood still in yesterday’s shroud
A girl with tangled, black hair, clad in a denim jacket, stared sullenly at a chiselled inscription above a stone fireplace, sighed, inclined her head quizzically for a moment and shrugged her shoulders. It did not make any sense.
On the wall above was a large oil painting of a tall Viking warrior, standing proud and impassive, a heavy sword grasped firmly in his hands. Where the sword touched the ground lay a huge grey wolf. It had a silvery coat and piercing white eyes.
The girl was drawn into their glare. For a few seconds, she was spooked, unable to break away, as if gripped by an unseen power. She felt a sudden chill of icy air around her and shrank back, her breath momentarily visible in front of her.
Behind her, a metal latch creaked and a heavy oak door swung slowly open. A draught rushed into the room, the distraction enabling her to break her gaze and look away.
For a split second, she saw the back of a woman passing the room, wearing a long crimson dress.
“I see you have found Hakon then, Rebecca.” She had been joined in the high stone hall by a tall man dressed in a long coat. His eyes followed her gaze to the picture.
“Uncle Henry.” Rebecca stared at the inscription, shrugged her shoulders and made a face. He smiled, not
ing her apparent disinterest.
“He has a chilling look, the wolf, huh?”
Rebecca was still disconcerted by the white eyes.
“What does the inscription mean? And who is Hakon, Uncle Henry?”
“That’s Hakon. Impressive, isn’t he?” He had a soft Scottish accent.
“Legend says he guards the grave of a Princess, who drowned in the loch on her wedding day. They say that the wolf can be heard in a raging storm, howling for his lost mistress. There is an unmarked grave on the island just here, which is said to be hers.”
“Can you go to the island?” Rebecca stared at the picture, unblinking.
“Why? It’s just an old grey stone on a cold windy island.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to, I just asked if it is possible. Although, I’ve got to do something in this place, as I’m stuck here for the summer. What’s the wolf’s name, anyway?” Rebecca stared petulantly at the powerful neck of the animal, around which was a leather collar, with red and green stones set into it.
“No – Hakon is the wolf. I don’t know the name of the warrior. The inscription is part of the legend but I don’t know what it means. Father would have known. Don’t be thinking on it too hard, you’ll be getting nightmares.”
He smiled at the sudden look of indignation that spread over Rebecca’s face.
“I’m not a child, Uncle Henry! I’m fourteen. No stupid painting is going to give me nightmares.”
“Old beyond your years, according to your father.” The smile had not faded.
“The sassie young lassie, they would say in these parts!”
Rebecca’s dark brown eyes flashed him a withering look. She turned back to the painting.
“Who painted it?” she asked.
“One of our ancestors, Donald McOwan, Donald the Wise. See the inscription? 1740.”
“The time of the Jacobite Rebellion,” Rebecca added in a self-satisfied tone.
“Indeed!” Henry looked at his niece, momentarily surprised. “Donald and some of his sons were killed at Drumossie Muir, the Battle of …“
“… Culloden,” interjected Rebecca, with a forced yawn. “We studied it last term. April 16, 1746, my birthday actually. The English army of King George, commanded by the Duke of Cumberland, routed the clans and the Bonnie Prince fled to France. He was disguised as a woman by Flora McDonald and escaped in a boat to the Isle of Skye. It was the end of the Jacobite Rebellion and the Scottish uprisings forever.”
She looked smugly at her uncle.
“I’m impressed!” smiled Henry. “Although I’d not be thinking the Scots are quelled forever. And the English army was as cruel and barbarous as ever in its history to the Highlanders after the battle. Not much honour in what they did. But Flora McDonald is a great legend. Makes a fortune out of the tourists. Loch nan Uamh, where the Bonnie Prince came ashore, is just along the coast. I expect you’ll want to go there too.”
Rebecca stole a quick look at her uncle, checking she wasn’t being teased again. He was studying the picture. She found herself drawn back like a magnet to the white-eyed wolf.
“Is Hakon a Scottish name?” she asked.
“Nordic. Much of the Highlands were once held by the Vikings. A castle has stood at Rahsaig since that time. Legend has it the Princess was from Norway, here to marry a clan chieftain – one of our ancestors.” He paused and went over to the window, peering across the loch, above which dark grey clouds were massing.
“We could be in for some weather. I’d best check the animals. You ring your folks to let them know you arrived safely. Miss McHarg will have dinner ready soon.”
The heavy front door closed behind him, leaving Rebecca alone. She looked at the picture, turning over in her mind what her uncle had told her about the wolf and the warrior, the Princess, her ancestors, the Bonnie Prince, and the inscription.
The white eyes stared down at her from the wall.
Despite her gloomy feelings on arrival at this remote, draughty castle in the wilds of Scotland, Rebecca was now curious about her strange surroundings and the secrets which might be concealed. Her lively, inquisitive nature often got her into trouble. Anything with an air of mystery drew her like a magnet. Not that she would be admitting interest to anyone just yet. The weather was atrocious and she had still to meet anyone within twenty years of her own age. With a determined effort, she forced her gaze from the picture, heading for the staircase. She found herself repeating the words over and again –
“… time has stood still in yesterday’s shroud…”
***
Rahsaig Castle was eerie. Tall forbidding turrets, crumbling battlements, hooded Highland crows squawking raucously. The ravages of the centuries had turned the ramparts black. Ghostly shadows flitted across dark leaded windows under the gloomy sky. The castle rang with strange noises, wind whistling in hidden nooks and crannies.
Narrow twisting stairways descended through a warren of passages to the dungeons. Moisture seeped through mossy walls, dripping onto floors worn by the feet of ages. Low ceilings, narrow doorways and solid doors added to the eerie gloom. Parts of the castle had not been inhabited for many years. In short, spooky summed it up.
Rebecca’s room was at the top of a turret, recommended by her Uncle as having the best views. From a cushioned seat in the large bay window, a spectacular panorama of Loch Nevis and the mountains of the Highlands stretched into the distance.
Turning the corner at the top of the stairs, Rebecca saw again a woman in a vivid crimson dress come out of a door on the passageway and disappear into another room further along. As she came closer, she realised the woman had been coming out of her room.
As she passed the doorway to the room into which the woman had gone, she looked inside. It was empty.
Odd, she thought but assumed there must be another exit from the room. She did not bother to investigate and dismissed it as unimportant.
Henry McOwan was wise enough to know that a teenager would be less than thrilled about spending her entire summer holiday in a remote, cold castle, with not much to do and little lively company. He wanted to make things interesting and had chosen one of the oldest rooms in the place for her. A grand four-poster bed, whose corners held carved heads of savage beasts, was the centrepiece. A huge fireplace opposite the window was flanked with two ancient claymore swords. In the hearth, a crackling fire gave the room a cosy atmosphere. By the window was a telescope, through which Rebecca had earlier spied on a man fishing on the far side of the loch.
Closing the creaky door, Rebecca crossed to the window seat and looked over to the island, where the Princess was supposedly buried. She decided she would definitely go and explore, with or without anyone’s help. She pulled her knees up to her chin, imagining what those days must have been like. The loch and hills were probably not very different, covered in craggy rocks and heather. The weather would almost certainly have been the same! Of course, people in olden times did not have modern heating, although, she reflected, the noisy plumbing of the ancient castle did not deserve the word modern. This corner of Scotland seemed little touched by the modern world.
Rebecca yawned. It had been a long day since she had waved goodbye to her brother Alistair at London St Pancras station that morning. He was going to tour Europe with friends but Rebecca was considered too young to go, which annoyed her considerably.
“We’ll be thinking of you, stuck in the wilds with just sheep for company!” he had joked as the train pulled out. Rebecca had scowled at him.
As her train had passed York, she realised she was the farthest north she had ever been. It did not occur to her that this might seem odd to people from outside London. To Rebecca, the capital was the centre of the universe.
She viewed this summer holiday as a punishment for being only fourteen and expected little enjoyment from it. Her parents’ business had taken them off for several weeks working in the Caribbean. Rebecca had been cross that they had not taken her too, a mood little improved when
the alternative of summer with her uncle in the north of Scotland was suggested. She knew little of Scotland or her Uncle Henry and was not inclined to feel excited about either.
And the journey had really dragged. She even considered getting out and going back to London, and might have done, had there been no chance of her parents finding out.
Beyond Glasgow, the train began a long, slow climb into the Highlands. Rebecca was surprised to find herself enjoying the view. She had never seen such countryside. A panorama of rugged mountains, glens and rivers unfolded. They would pass a waterfall, or round a bend to find a beautiful loch. Rebecca’s grumpy mood was temporarily lifted.
However, when the train finally pulled into Fort William and she gathered her things to disembark, she looked out into a desolate, grey gloom. Rain was beating down relentlessly from a leaden sky.
So much for summer, she had thought, trying to blank out mental images of her brother up the Eiffel Tower and her parents sipping exotic cocktails under Caribbean palms. To complete her isolation, her mobile phone refused to work in this mountainous region, so she could not even moan to her friends. As she stepped down onto the platform, Rebecca felt thoroughly fed up.
A loud chime from the clock on the landing brought her swiftly out of her reverie. Supper would be ready downstairs. Hastily she went over to her suitcase to get out some different clothes. As she did so, there was a clunk as something fell onto the floor behind her. She looked back and saw a curious black, iron key. She picked it up and examined it. It was double-ended. She looked around the room. There was nothing immediately obvious which it might unlock. Puzzled she shoved it deep into her pocket and went to change her clothes.
The door of her room was suddenly slammed shut.
Rebecca looked up, startled. She had not heard the door opening nor been aware of anyone else in the room with her. She crossed to the door, opened it and looked cautiously outside.
The passageway was empty in both directions.
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