The Dark Water

by Helen Moorhouse

  Gabriel frowned. “His head office? But surely he’s retired at this stage?”

  Gifford nodded. “For the most part,” he replied, his ‘r’s’ soft. “But I believe that the board of Violet’s Frozen Fish was making some sort of presentation to him at their annual dinner to mark the occasion as he was head of the company for so long and he felt he had to go along. He finds it terribly difficult to sit still for long, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  Gabriel grinned. “I can well imagine, Gifford,” he replied.

  “Do you have baggage with you?” the butler asked, changing the subject.

  Gabriel nodded toward the door. “Quite a bit,” he said. “We’ve brought some added extras in response to your invitation . . . we hoped to be able to take a proper – eh – scientific look at things? Once we’ve had the chance to chat with you, of course.” He thought he saw Gifford blush slightly and avert his eyes.

  “Very good,” Gifford replied. “I’ll send Callum down in the golf buggy later – would that be an idea?”

  “That would be a great idea,” said Gabriel reassuringly.

  Will watched the exchange between the two men. “Would it also be a good idea to have a little chat with you now, Mr Gifford?” he asked, a hint of eagerness to his voice. If Gabriel’s godfather wasn’t around, and no guests were staying overnight, then they had a perfect opportunity.

  Gifford reddened again. “I suppose that’s why I asked you to come,” he said, with a tone of resignation to his voice. “I just need to finish some arrangements with the caterers – they need their instruction by lunchtime or else who knows what we’ll be eating tomorrow night. It’s all a bit too much for Mrs Hibbert these days so we hire in professionals. Would you mind awfully waiting for me in the library while I telephone them?” He indicated the room from which he had just come. “I’ll just make the call from my office downstairs and then we can get down to business. No time like the present.”

  Gabriel responded by giving the man a warm clap on his shoulder. “Is there Talisker in the library by any chance?” he asked mischievously and was rewarded with another of the man’s enigmatic smiles.

  “Isn’t there always at Christmas?” Gifford said softly, and then with the tiniest of nods in Will’s direction, he excused himself and disappeared through a door underneath the turn in the stairs, leaving Will and Gabriel to enter the library.

  Once inside, Gabriel headed straight toward a shelf which was laden with bottles and glasses. While he was busy, Will took the opportunity to try to text Martha but tutted when he glanced at his phone and saw the complete dearth of coverage bars. He’d have to try again later.

  Gabriel, finally clutching the much-longed-for glass of amber liquid, plonked himself on an upholstered armchair and gulped the first sip, smacking his lips theatrically as he did so. Will had refused the offer of a glass but as he returned the phone to his pocket and sank into the chair opposite, he wondered if he might retract his refusal and have something to calm his nerves. He couldn’t tell why but, as he took in his surroundings, the room itself made him edgy. He wasn’t sure if it was the wood-panelled ceiling, the dark tiles each individually decorated in the centre with a small fish, the great gothic window which looked out over the front of the castle but seemed to let in no light or the high shelves of heavy books which lined all four walls. The end of the room furthest from him was virtually in complete darkness – he could just make out the looming shape of another stag’s head keeping a watchful eye on the volumes. The furniture was scattered about – more of these high-backed, gilt-framed chairs, occasional tables, more plastic flowers, some of them in Victorian-style domes which always gave him the creeps. Just behind him was a piano, covered with a black cloth, bearing yet another glass case in which a stuffed weasel was frozen in motion as he crossed a log, a small field mouse dead at his feet, the tongue of the tiny creature lolling to one side while the weasel beamed in victory. It felt like a Victorian funeral parlour, Will thought to himself and continued to look nervously around.

  “Sure I can’t tempt you with a Talisker?” Gabriel cajoled him. “‘The king o’ drinks’, Robert Louis Stevenson called Scotch whisky.” He sipped noisily from the glass and regarded Will imperiously.

  Will coughed and shook his head, shuffling his feet uncomfortably as he continued to scan his surroundings.

  “It’s horrible in here, isn’t it?” said Gabriel after a while.

  Will didn’t need to pretend, and didn’t want to. He knew that Gabriel had picked up on how the room made him feel. He didn’t need his psychic gift for that. He replied by nodding, turning his head to nervously study the weasel again, and then looking back at Gabriel who stared back wordlessly for a few moments – until he leaned forward suddenly in his seat, grabbing his throat while simultaneously making a guttural hiss from the back of his throat.

  Will jumped, emitting an involuntary grunt of shock. Gabriel began to giggle, leaning back in the chair, satisfied that his impersonation of having one’s throat ripped out by a weasel had done its job.

  “Jesus, Gabriel!” sighed Will once he had calmed down a little.

  That served only to reduce the medium to helpless mirth and Will watched as a tear ran down his cheek.

  “I’m so . . . sorry!” Gabriel gulped. “But you’re normally so brave! So unflappable!”

  Will couldn’t help but join in. “I know,” he spluttered, “but this room gives me the total creeps – it’s like the set of a Hammer horror for Christ’s sake!”

  Gabriel groaned and wiped the last of his laughter-tears from the corner of his eyes. He pointed to a photograph, framed on a small side-table to Will’s left. “You haven’t seen an up-to-date shot of the old man yet, have you?” he asked, sniffing.

  Will leaned forward and peered in the gloom at the picture. It showed a proud, thin elderly gentleman, glasses perched on his nose, wispy hair askew, proudly holding a huge fish and surrounded by smiling schoolchildren.

  “He’ll need a pretty big potato to make the chips!” Will observed with a smile. He had seen the pictures in Sue’s collection of the young Christopher Calvert on the steps of the Old Bailey, almost fifty years before. He was now in his eighties, Will calculated. He had changed little – a slight stoop with age of course, but his smile was broad and his eyes bright.

  Gabriel gave a small snort. “I think that’s probably the local school’s fishing contest. Loves his fish, does Godfather. At work and at play . . .” He leaned in for a closer look himself. “He’s a real animal-loving, kid-encouraging, philanthropist type – wait till you see the drawing room – there’s a sort of shrine to everything that he does for Dubhglas village. The church fete, the village games, the annual mince-pie and mulled-wine reception that he’ll do next weekend – he takes his role as Laird very seriously, and he’s very popular. The original Local Hero, my godfather.”

  “He made his fortune in the fishing industry?”

  Gabriel nodded. “The Violet’s Frozen Fish range. Fish fingers, fish toes, fish spleens – if it had gills then it’s frozen in a bag by my godfather’s company – which was apparently named after my mother I’ll have you know . . .”

  Will gave a start as the door opened and Gifford came in, approaching on silent feet, in soft shoes, and sat down in a chair on Gabriel’s right-hand side, perching on the edge of the seat.

  “I do apologise for that delay,” he said calmly. “I hope you don’t think I’m being too familiar, joining you for a conversation like this?”

  Gabriel waved his hand dismissively. “That’s what we’re here for,” he said, and took another swig from his whisky. “Care to join me in one of these, seeing as Will refuses?”

  Gifford looked shocked. He stammered a little as he tried to refuse politely. “I’m – I couldn’t – not while I’m on duty, thanks, Mr McKenzie,” he managed and pulled his feet closer to each other until he sat in what Will thought must be the tensest position he had ever seen, his back ramrod straight,
shoulders back, knees together. The man’s demeanour made him appear as though he had travelled through time from a bygone age of servitude.

  There was something else, though, Will noted. Something he saw in his eyes. His whole tense body screamed of someone who was very nervous indeed. His instinct was to be kind to the man.

  “How can we help you, Mr Gifford?” he asked, and leaned toward him.

  Gifford glanced uncomfortably first at Will and then at Gabriel.

  “Will’s a student of parapsychology,” Gabriel said reassuringly. “He knows about these things. And if you’re – frightened – or unnerved by anything, then it’s Will’s job to put you straight.”

  Gifford looked at him, and then back at Will. It was clear that the man didn’t know where to start.

  Still in his upright position, he cleared his throat and searched for words. “I’m not really sure how to begin,” he said.

  Will leaned further toward him, eager to hear what he had to say. He was rewarded by Gifford jumping up with a shocked expression on his face.

  “Tea!” he barked. “I never even thought to offer you tea!” He looked aghast, as though he had himself committed murder. It took a few moments for Will and Gabriel to get him to sit back down, to reassure him that tea wasn’t required. To appease him, Will requested the whisky which he had earlier refused. Gifford was more at ease serving others, it was clear.

  When they eventually settled him, he took a deep breath, raised his eyes heavenward and began slowly. “I wouldn’t normally so much as acknowledge this sort of thing,” he started, “but as I said in my note to you, Mr McKenzie, we’re not too sure where to turn for help. Because it’s not just me. If it was, I probably wouldn’t have approached you.” He hesitated for a moment, keen to show that he meant to trouble no one. “It’s the staff, you see. They’re . . . well . . . uncomfortable with something in the castle. And when they’re unsettled, so am I. We’re really not too sure what’s going on, but we know that we don’t like it.” He paused for a moment to look again at their faces, make sure that they were listening. His discomfort was palpable, but then again, so was the fear that they could feel coming from him.

  “Go on,” Will said, encouragingly.

  “Over the past few months . . . about six months or so, in fact,” Gifford continued hesitantly, “we’ve been able to feel something about the place . . . something that shouldn’t be here. Do you understand?”

  Will and Gabriel made reassuring noises.

  “Absolutely,” said Will, making eye contact with Gifford who responded by turning slightly toward him.

  “At first I thought it was the maids being silly,” continued Gifford. “We have two who work part-time – they alternate mornings and afternoons each week. It works quite well. And then if we’re entertaining at night – if Mr Calvert has, say, some of his committees up here, or a guest or two – then there’s a couple of the girls who we hire casually. They’re in college so they work evenings and weekends to earn some pocket money.”

  “What is it that made you think they were being silly?” asked Will, gently steering Gifford back on course.

  He cleared his throat again. “Well, they started saying silly things – refusing to go into some of the rooms because they said they could hear noises . . . breathing, if you must know. They said that there were unpleasant smells about the place too. Tobacco smoke for one, when no one in this house touches the stuff. I thought it was their imaginations, all feeding off each other – a mass-hysteria thing. But then Mr Johnson, the gardener, said that he’d been getting a drink in the old kitchen downstairs – I can show you around later, Mr Peterson – we’ve a brand-new kitchen down there but the old one is still in use as a sort of canteen for the staff. Not that there are much of us any more, of course. Anyhow, where was I?”

  Gifford looked blankly at Will, trying to retrace his steps.

  “Mr Johnson?” prompted Will, reaching into his inside pocket to take out the small notebook and pen that he kept there. It had come to the point in the story when he needed to start taking notes.

  “Oh yes. Mr Johnson. Well, he smelt the smoke too. And he was the first to see something. It was a mist, he said. In front of the old cooker down there. He turned his back to fetch a teabag and when he turned back to get the kettle it was there in front of him.”

  “Did this mist take a form? A person, or an animal?” asked Will, matter of factly, scribbling as he did.

  Gifford shook his head. “Not that Mr Johnson saw,” he replied. “He dropped the teabag and ran outside as fast as he could. Said he felt stupid afterwards but I could tell it really shook him.”

  “When did this happen?” interrupted Gabriel, now leaning forward too on his seat.

  “Around August time,” replied Gifford.

  Gabriel smiled. “I mean, what time of the day was it?”

  Gifford smiled slightly. “Terribly sorry, Mr McKenzie,” he said, allowing a short laugh to escape his lips. “It was dusk. Mr Johnson was doing the lawns – he comes in for one full day a week to do them and stays as long as it takes. He had finished mowing and was just taking a break before cleaning down the mower. He always takes a cup of tea out with him to the shed – and that’s when it happened.”

  Will looked up from his notebook. “That must have been unnerving,” he said. “Anything else?”

  Gifford’s eyes widened and he leaned closer to Will. “That was just the start of it. Since then it’s got more frequent – in here, for example. Whichever of the maids was on the first shift used to come in and clean first thing in the morning. But soon it got to the point where they’d wait till their shift crossed over at lunchtime so that they wouldn’t have to be in here alone, and so that it would take them half the time. Stuff . . . moves, you see. It ends the day where it should be, and then turns up somewhere odd the morning after. Or it might be in its right place, but upside down.”

  “Classic poltergeist activity,” noted Will. “Who’s here at night-time, Gifford?”

  “Only Mr Calvert,” came the reply. “The maids go home, I live in the village, Mrs Hibbert lives in her little house out the back, across the courtyard. Mr Calvert wouldn’t do such a thing and besides which he doesn’t believe in this sort of thing. He doesn’t seem to have experienced or noticed anything out of the ordinary in fact.”

  “Or if he has, he’s not saying?” offered Gabriel. “He’s getting old after all – he’s at the prime age for doing things like leaving his glasses in the fridge or his teeth in the car or whatever.”

  Gifford was having none of it. “He might be advanced in years, Mr McKenzie, but his wits are entirely about him!” he snapped.

  Will noted this. “What else?” he asked.

  Gifford turned again to face him, calmed himself a little and thought about where to rejoin his story.

  “We started to have more concern when one of the night girls was helping serve dinner around the start of October,” he continued, his voice low. “She came in here to get something – to check the fire maybe, or for Mr Calvert’s nightcap. And then she came screaming down to the kitchens – I’ve never seen anyone so terrified.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “A glass, Mr Peterson. A glass like the one you’re holding in your hand right now. Someone . . . something . . . threw it at her and it just about missed her head, by inches, and smashed on the hearth. There’s a chip gone out of the hearth, in fact – there, look – but there was no one in here at the time. I saw the broken glass with my own eyes however.”

  Will wrote furiously for a moment and then looked back at Gifford who was clearly becoming more and more unsettled at his own account of events. The butler shuddered slightly as a cold breeze ran through him, someone walking over his grave.

  “And what else then?” Will prompted again.

  “After that it was almost constant. The girls said that they felt as though they were being watched, or followed upstairs. Then those mists started to appear up
stairs as well – mainly on the mezzanine. They saw shadows where there should have been none. Callum, the odd-job boy – he only works weekends because he’s still at school – he had to leave early one day because he said he felt something around his legs – something warm, like a small animal. And that’s the other thing, we’ve all heard a little bell jingle around the house but there aren’t any pets here – or goats or anything like that. And there’s still the breathing noises behind you when you least expect them, and then when you turn there’s no one there. And we’ve all had things thrown at us in here.”

  Will glanced nervously around him, as if he expected to be hit with a missile any second.

  “No one’s ever been hit, but the breakage rate is very high.” He paused. “There’s just an odd feeling about the place too. I’m a sensible man, Mr Peterson, but I can’t deny that something’s changed round here. It’s colder too, somehow – like room temperature has dropped a few degrees, despite the time of year. I’ve worked all over the world – in restaurants, castles, stately homes – I used to stride through Dubhglas Castle without a care, but since all this started, I find myself jumping at the slightest thing, looking behind me, seeing shapes out of the corner of my eyes, racing to get my coat on in the evenings to leave and I am not a man who shirks his duties.”

  Gifford’s expression had grown deathly serious, his eyes wide.

  “So you’ve had personal experiences, Mr Gifford?” urged Will.

  His response was an emphatic nod. “We all have, Mr Peterson,” he stated. “And then these started appearing on us one by one – we don’t feel ourselves getting them, but then they’re there, and we don’t know where they’ve come from. Callum got the first – the poor boy feels terribly threatened, I have to say. I found this earlier today . . .” He pulled up his sleeve and held his left arm out into what little fading light there was, turning the underside toward Will first, and then towards Gabriel.