The Rat Stone Serenade

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Affairs! Well, that’s rich coming from you, off spending New Year with that tart. Don’t you know she’s only fucking you to get a promotion? Why on earth would she find you attractive otherwise?’

  ‘Listen to me.’ He lowered his voice as a policeman approached him down the long corridor. ‘I do not have time for this right now. Just don’t put the fucking phone down on me again!’ He ended the call.

  The cop nodded and smiled as he passed. Daley stopped at an old image; two figures standing in front of some scaffolding. The photograph was brown, discoloured with age. It reminded him of the picture he’d seen at McGuiness’s home earlier that evening, even though the people in the image were different. A well-dressed man in a bowler hat stood beside a young woman. He had a watch chain spread across his waistcoat and his bowler hat was at a jaunty angle. He oozed self-confidence and assuredness. Daley squinted at the tiny writing under the image: Mr and Mrs Archibald Shannon at the laying of the foundation stone of Kersivay House. Daley stared at the man again and realised that it could have been Maxwell, the resemblance between the two was extraordinary.

  For some reason he couldn’t fathom, the face of the young policeman he had just seen crossed his mind. The cop needed a shave. When Daley had been a constable in uniform, an outraged shift sergeant would have chased him the length of Stewart Street Police Office if he he’d turned up for duty like that. He turned around, but there was no sign of the constable in the long corridor. One of the Support Unit guys, he thought. Things are slipping. He made a mental note to bring the subject up with the unit sergeant. It was a small point, he knew, but sometimes small things were important. He didn’t know why, but suddenly his stomach lurched and he felt a tightness in his chest. He put it down to the acrimonious phone call with his wife.

  He looked back down the corridor and stroked his chin.

  Bruce craned his neck over the crowds in the Black Wherry, looking for a table for himself, his daughter, Mrs Watkins and their minder. He handed the tall, wiry security man a small wad of notes and sent him to the bar. ‘Open a tab with this, will you. We’ll find a seat somewhere. Get a waitress to come over when she’s ready.’

  He spotted a table. The imposing figure of Jock Munro was sitting beside two others. He’d known Jock since he was a child, when he’d been given the writer’s books to read and thoroughly enjoyed them. They were full of derring-do and, in the main, set in and around Blaan. His favourite, a children’s novel, had been the one about the massacre at the castle. He’d made the mistake of letting his daughter read it when she was younger. Nadia had been so upset by it that she hadn’t slept for days afterwards. He remembered his wife’s face as she had tended to the stricken girl. Why was it that the ghosts of one’s past refused to lie down and die?

  He made his way over to Jock’s table, suddenly recognising the detective who’d been coordinating the search for Bergner earlier in the day. He gave him a nod of recognition.

  ‘Mind if we take a seat, Jock?’ he said, above the din of the accordion and the excited revellers, many of whom were staring at him. ‘Not long until Big Ben chimes in the New Year!’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  The Shannon party took their seats as a waitress appeared at the table.

  ‘Get my friends here whatever makes them happy. In fact, buy the whole bar a drink and put it on my tab. Happy New Year!’ He took a twenty pound note from his pocket and handed it to the smiling waitress. ‘That’s for you. Keep ’em coming,’ he said, winking at the girl.

  ‘Cheers, Mr Shannon,’ said the detective, holding up his glass. His face was flushed and Bruce could see he’d already had a few. Lucky him, he thought.

  ‘My pleasure, sergeant,’ he replied.

  ‘Och, less o’ the sergeant. My name’s Brian. This is my mate Annie from the magnificent County Hotel in Kinloch.’

  Bruce shook the woman’s hand and she beamed in response. For the first time since he’d arrived in Blaan, he felt relaxed.

  He looked at his daughter. She was gazing from beneath her fringe at a group of young people dancing a reel, as fascinated by them as though they had sprung from another planet.

  ‘Here, Mr Shannon,’ said the woman, pushing a glass brimfull with whisky across the table. ‘This’ll keep you goin’ until the lassie gets back wae yours.’

  ‘Cheers, much obliged.’ It was time to forget about his troubles, if only for a while.

  Ignatius More was walking along the road on the outskirts of Blaan, a large torch illuminating his path between the manse and the Old Kirk. The air was cold, the snow on either side of the road deep. The eerie stillness made the search for his wife an anxious one.

  He was about to turn onto the long gravel driveway that led towards the church when movement to his left made him stop in his tracks. ‘Hello?’ he called, but there was no reply. He stood listening for a few moments then walked on. As he reached the church a flicker of light through a long arched window caught his eye. He climbed the three low steps and turned the big brass handle of the kirk’s oaken door, wincing as it squeaked in protest.

  ‘Roy, is that you mate?’ he said, hoping that his church officer had returned to the building for some reason. There was no reply. Distantly, he could hear something dripping, a steady tap, unnaturally loud as it echoed around the old building. He shone his torch along pews and aisles. A single candle flickered on the solid communion table, directly below the pulpit; its flame guttered at an angle, shying from some draught.

  The dripping sound grew louder and, in the beam of his torch, he noticed that the vestry door was lying open. Normally, as it contained the Minister’s personal papers and the church silver, it was the only part of the church to be locked. More could have sworn he’d locked it before leaving the kirk earlier that evening. ‘Roy, Mr Simpson, are you there?’

  The only response was the metronomic drip, drip, drip. The Reverend More edged through the door and into his vestry.

  21

  Everyone looked to the television behind the bar at the Black Wherry Inn. Thanks to the hotel’s generator and satellite television, its customers could see images from around the country of the Hogmanay festivities. The picture switched between images of Big Ben and Princes Street in Edinburgh, which was thronged with revellers anxious to begin the party the city had become famous for.

  ‘Three . . . two . . . one! Happy New Year!’ As the chimes of Big Ben rang out, celebrations began across the country. The customers in the Black Wherry embraced, kissed and heartily shook each other’s hands, all to the clink of glasses and the swirl of the accordion. As the first bars of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ rang out, the good people of Blaan linked arms and greeted the New Year in the traditional manner.

  When the singing ended, Jessie, somewhat unsteadily, climbed onto a table and addressed her customers. ‘Right, everybody. Even though we’re oxter-deep in the snow, yous will be pleased tae hear that we’ve managed tae salvage the bonfire and the fireworks. So get your coats on an’ follow me!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Scott.

  ‘We always go out the back for a bonfire,’ said Jock. ‘We’ve been doing it for years, long before those buggers in Edinburgh and London started to copy us. The field is where we hold the Blaan Highland Games, but it’s got an older history than that.’

  ‘Aye, it has that,’ said Annie, shrugging on her coat.

  ‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense,’ said Scott, warmed now by a few whiskies and thoroughly enjoying himself.

  ‘It’s called the Bloody Glebe. It’s where the government soldiers executed every man from the castle. Struck off their heads, as the minister shouted for the blood of his own parishioners. A dreadful day, indeed.’

  ‘That’s a wee bit extreme, is it no’?’ said Scott, draining his glass.

  ‘The Red Preacher, they called him. He’s remembered and reviled here, to this day. We burn his effigy on the bonfire every New Year, a bit like yon Guy Fawkes, though we did it first.’

&
nbsp; ‘Hell mend you if you didna go tae church in they days, eh?’ observed Scott.

  ‘The worst of it was he was a local man. He made sure that men he’d grown up with were butchered by the king’s soldiers. The killing only stopped when the commanding officer himself could take no more. Still the Red Preacher called for more death, as the blood lapped at his very ankles, so they say. He and his family bear the shame to this day.’

  ‘What was his name, Jock?’

  ‘The Red Preacher? Thomas Shannon.’

  More shone his torch around the vestry. A long sideboard holding the parish silver, only used for special occasions like christenings and communion, stood beside a tall wardrobe where his vestments were stored, the old devotional threads covered by modern suit carriers. The contrast had always amused him. In the far corner of the room he shone the beam of his torch on a deep Belfast sink into which a tap was dripping, the sound echoing from the vestry and amplified in the body of the empty kirk.

  He turned the tap off and, taking one last look around the room, noticed that the door to the wardrobe was slightly ajar. He felt a strange sensation in his chest as he stared at it, something between fear and excitement.

  Scott admired how the people of Blaan had not been discouraged from celebrating New Year in their usual way, despite the deep snow and the horrors being perpetrated in their small community. Part of the field had been cleared to make way for an enormous pile of wood, on top of which he could make out a still figure, no doubt the effigy of the Red Preacher, Thomas Shannon.

  He wondered how Bruce Shannon felt about this, but the middle-aged businessman was all smiles, flirting with two young woman swaddled in thick coats, scarves and gloves. Scott kept an eye on him as Jessie, now assisted by her cousin Annie and a group of thickset farmers, placed fireworks in buckets of sand.

  Scott reckoned there were about three hundred people in the crowded field; it was clear that a good proportion of the village’s population had turned out, despite the inclement weather.

  He walked closer to the pile of wood which would soon be the blazing bonfire. The smell of petrol was strong. The effigy looked realistic, dressed in the black clothes of a man of the cloth and sporting an improvised dog collar. The only thing that spoiled the effect was the bag that served as the dummy’s head. It was white and looked as though it had been filled with cloth to bulk it into the shape of a man’s skull.

  ‘You could have at least have drawn a face on that poor bloke,’ Scott said to Jessie, now at his side.

  ‘Never mind that. C’mon, you, and take part in the competition. There’s a bottle of whisky as first prize. I jeest hope Mecky Deans doesna win again. Five years in a row, noo.’

  ‘What’s the competition?’

  ‘Flingin’ the bale, of course. I’m hopin’ the cauld this year will rob him o’ his grip. That’s him o’er there.’

  Scott looked across the field, bright with the light of various lamps and torches held by the crowd. He was just about the biggest man Scott had ever seen; tall and broad with it. The bale in question was of straw, about a foot square, bound together with thick twine and tied to a sturdy rope. As the man held it in his big hands it looked small and light, but Scott knew that it was just an illusion caused by the man’s sheer size.

  ‘Never let it be said that a Scott wisna up for a challenge.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Jessie, as Annie looked on doubtfully. ‘They’ve been tossing the bale here for years. Some say it represents a severed head, like the yins they used tae fling fae the walls o’ the castle – prisoner’s heids.’ She smiled with what Scott thought was slightly too much relish. ‘Aye, but Mecky Deans is a champion tosser – his faither was the same. Great family o’ tossers, all the gither.’

  ‘I know a few families like that, myself,’ said Scott.

  ‘I must say, I wasn’t expecting you to call and wish me a Happy New Year, DCI Daley. But the very best to you and yours.’ Local solicitor and coxswain of the Kinloch lifeboat John Campbell’s voice was slurred. ‘We’re all in the dark here. Any idea how long this power cut will last?’

  ‘None, I’m afraid to say,’ replied Daley. He’d agonised about making the call, but reckoned that, despite the festivities, he needed to find out more about what had happened in the lead-up to the building of Kersivay House. ‘I need to pick your brains, John.’

  ‘Wish I hadn’t stowed as much Ardbeg on board, but I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I think your firm dealt with the land sale prior to the construction of Kersivay House, am I right?’

  ‘My goodness, a blast from the past, indeed. Yes, it was our firm. Well, the firm as it was then. My grandfather didn’t become a partner until the twenties, but he remembered old Dryesdale who was mainly responsible for the case. He told me many a tale about him. Miserable bugger, by all accounts. Came to a tragic end, mark you.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, his career was rather framed by the whole experience. Of course, he behaved in an exemplary manner as far as the law was concerned. Unfortunately, Nathaniel Stuart didn’t think so, held it against him for the rest of his life. Cursed the poor old bugger, as I recall.’

  ‘I’m pleased you know so much about this,’ said Daley.

  ‘Oh, yes, one of the great old tales of the firm. We are a small-town solicitors, Mr Daley. Our association with the Shannons has been one of the high points in our history.’

  Daley heard whispering, the chink of a bottle on glass and the glug of the pouring spirit.

  ‘Just about everything has been passed down. Apart from their business, I’m sad to say.’

  ‘So you no longer do work for the family?’

  ‘No, unfortunately not. The Shannons have always been difficult to deal with. After the death of old Torquil, Archibald Shannon withdrew his favour. He was a rum old cove by all accounts.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Oh, the list is endless. Suffice to say he didn’t found the empire on goodness of heart or charity. I must admit, I have sympathy with Nathaniel Stuart. I don’t think the firm behaved very well throughout the Kersivay House debacle, if you want me to be absolutely frank.’

  ‘So you think there was some kind of injustice?’

  ‘Well, not strictly speaking, not as far as the written account would have you believe.’

  ‘And the unwritten account?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I can give an opinion as it’s almost eighty years since we worked for the family. It was pretty clear that Archibald Shannon entered into a verbal contract with Stuart, ensuring that he would have at least a hundred years tenancy of the ground upon which Kersivay House now stands. Stuart sold the property in good faith. Money was tight and with two blacksmiths in Blaan and the motor car on the way, things weren’t set to improve. Who wanted to make the climb up to Stuart’s business when Shannon’s blacksmith shop was at the heart of the village? I daresay old Nathaniel thought that cutting the deal with a man he had known all his life would ensure the land stayed in his family, as it had done for centuries. He was wrong.’

  ‘Sharp practice, then?’

  ‘Off the record?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Absolutely it was. Please don’t quote me, Mr Daley. The existing Shannons are every bit as vindictive as their illustrious forebear, trust me. I certainly wouldn’t want to fall foul of them.’ Campbell hiccoughed at the end of the sentence.

  ‘So it’s fair to say that the Stuarts were justifiably pissed off.’

  ‘Putting it mildly. So much so, in fact, that Nathaniel’s descendants were questioned by your colleagues when young Archie Shannon went missing fifty years ago.’

  ‘Do you know anything about them?’

  ‘Old Nathaniel left this area sometime in the thirties, I believe. He’d worked on farms, lived in a tied cottage somewhere. He decided to move away, couldn’t bear looking up at Kersivay House, so they say. As to what happened to the family thereafter, I’m not sure. I could try and find
out.’

  ‘Yes, if you could. Thank you, John, this is most informative. What happened to Mr Dryesdale? You said he had a tragic end.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. He was found dead. His throat was cut.’

  ‘In Kinloch?’

  ‘No. Not far from where you are now, in fact. Nobody was ever brought to book, of course. His body was found at the Rat Stone in Blaan.’

  22

  Reverend More closed the door of the vestry and pulled the handle to make sure the lock had clicked into place. He shivered as he shone his torch around the empty church. Then something he hadn’t noticed before caught his eye.

  Underneath the pulpit, on the altar, sat the large silver goblet usually reserved for communion. He definitely hadn’t seen it before entering the vestry. A shiver shot down the length of his spine.

  Edging towards the table, he almost jumped out of his skin as the phone in his pocket bleeped.

  ‘You almost gave me a heart attack,’ he said as he answered the call. ‘I still don’t know where she is. I’m worried. You’ll have to give me more time. I have to find her . . .’ Before he could finish the sentence, movement from above distracted him. Quickly, he directed the torch beam at the source of the sound. There, above him in the pulpit, a figure dressed in white, face covered in a shroud, stood, arms outstretched, head raised to the heavens.

  The Old Kirk at Blaan resounded to the echoing screams of Ignatius More, minister of the church.

  Scott swung the bale backwards and forwards on the rope, like a pendulum, trying to gain momentum.

  ‘We’ve no’ got all night!’ shouted someone from the crowd, just as Scott let go. He watched it arc through the moonlit sky, well under the bar he had to get over to qualify for the next round.

  ‘Bugger,’ he swore to himself, rubbing his freezing hands together.

  ‘Aye, good try, Brian,’ shouted Annie. ‘You’ve got another two shots, mind, so don’t gie up!’

  ‘Would this not be better done in the summer? I can’t feel my bloody hands.’