What an odd thing—a broom. Why here?
I set the light on the stone floor and reached for the handle. It was ancient with age and nearly falling apart, the ends of the clumped conglomeration of thin twigs bent almost to ninety degrees from years of use.
I set aside both key ring and flashlight and absently began gently sweeping at the dirt and dust from the corner where it stood. I swept back a foot, then two feet from where the two walls joined. Instead of the larger paving stones with which the rest of the room was tiled, those nearest the corner, I now saw as I swept the dirt from them, were smaller stones only six to eight inches square, perfectly shaped and set in place, yet covered with dirt and dust so they would not be noticed as distinct from the rest.
My curiosity aroused, I swept the smaller stones of the corner clean until the grooves between them appeared with greater clarity. The grooves surrounding one center stone appeared cut deeper than the rest. I knelt and probed with my finger. This center stone was held in place by loose dirt, not mortar. I scraped harder and harder, loosening the dirt to a depth of about half the length of my finger, then tried to grab the stone by its exposed edges. It was loose, held in place only by dirt swept over it to hide it from view.
I jiggled and pulled and after a little effort the stone gave way. I lifted it up and out of its resting place.
Beneath it, set in a bed of perfectly cut stones mortared in place beneath the level of the floor, was a six-inch oval brass plate, green and tarnished with age. I examined it with my light, then reached into the cavity and probed with my hand. The plate seemed intended to swivel, though with difficulty, from a small pin at its top. I pushed harder to pivot it sideways. As it swung away, below it my eyes fell upon a keyhole in the center of an ancient complex mechanism of brass.
I stared in disbelief. It was so old, how could it possibly still work? The next instant I had the ring of keys in my hands and was fumbling with one after another. The matching key was not difficult to find—it was the mysterious decorative key of brass. It fit the hole perfectly. I inserted it and turned. A dull clank sounded somewhere above me. The sound came from the adjacent wall, as if invisible pins, probably also of brass, had just given way inside it.
I stood and began examining the wall, pushing and probing with my free hand. Suddenly a portion of the wall gave way an inch or two. I gave a great shove with my shoulder and gasped in astonishment again as a door three feet wide swung back out of the wall, revealing a stone staircase behind it of equal width leading down into a chasm of blackness.
A rush of damp air met my face, almost—though it could hardly be—with reminders of the sea.
Without thought, I probed the tunnel yawning before me with the light of my torch, then began a new descent into unknown regions below.
I found myself walking down a long stairway. When I reached its base, a small blind alcove to the left led a short distance where, curiously, nothing was to be seen but a small air duct, which I could only assume supplied draft air for the system of chimneys.
I paused to allow the echo of my footfalls to die away. There could be no doubt. The sound of harp notes was more clear and pronounced now. This tunnel and duct could be none other than the source by which it had made its way above, there to invade my sleep with the harp-dreams that had instigated my search. The sound no longer came from the chimney duct, but from the corridor itself!
In the opposite direction from the alcove, a narrow tunnel led in the opposite direction into darkness. There were no rooms or doors. Its walls and ceilings were of dirt and stone and of about six feet in height. Alasdair would have had to stoop, but I could walk upright without banging my head. Even shining my light straight along its length, I could not see any end to it.
Heedless of what it all might mean, or the potential danger, not once thinking that not a soul knew where I was, I hurried into the tunnel toward the weird sounds.
The way before me was long and straight at first, then gradually curved a little left and then right again, though the turns were gradual. I came at length to where a wall of stones had at one time been erected to block the tunnel and prevent further passage. The stones had not been mortared in solidly but set in place dry, in the manner of a dry-stone dyke. I paused to assess what to do. At some later time, perhaps a third of the stones had been removed and were now stacked and strewn along the tunnel to one side out of the way.
The way through the conglomeration of random-shaped stones was passable, though not easily, just possibly wide enough that a pedal harp might be gotten through it, though the very thought of the damage that would result made me cringe. I crept through the opening and, once beyond the barrier, hurried on. The floor was now strewn with stones and debris and, if I dared look carefully, possibly bones. Alasdair’s spooky stories flooded my mind, and I did not look carefully. I couldn’t lose my nerve now!
Ahead, after another long walk of probably fifty or seventy-five meters as the way seemed to curve more noticeably to the right, the tunnel came to an end. In front of me, a great oak door, with massive rusting iron hinges still stoutly embedded into the surrounding stone, stood slightly ajar.
Behind it—there was no doubt now—I heard the Queen.
I drew in a deep breath as if summoning the final measure of courage, then set my hand to the door and pushed.
Creaking and groaning as if wood and hinges together might disintegrate from the strain, the door swung slowly back.
Chapter Sixty-one
The Queen
Oh, the sweetness that dwells in a harp of many strings,
While each, all vocal with love in a tuneful harmony rings.
But, oh, the wail and discord, when one and another is rent,
Tensionless, broken and lost, from the cherished instrument.
—L. B. Cowman, Streams in the Desert, January 28
The room I beheld was dimly lit with assorted flickering candles. The thought flitted through my brain that I had stumbled upon a druidic or cultic séance. Immediately I remembered the monastery that had originally occupied Castle Buchan. The candles were more likely reminders of ancient Catholic liturgical ceremonies. Perhaps this was a storeroom for its chapel supplies. Such thoughts flashed past in a split second.
Across the room, my eyes were drawn instantly to the magnificent form of the Queen. The blond hues of her wood shone golden in the light of the candles. From her strings continued randomly plucked notes and an occasional grating glissando.
Behind it like a specter of white stood Olivia Urquhart, her fingers stabbing at the strings without pattern or purpose other than to make sound. I recoiled at the blasphemy of seeing her at my harp, she who had always despised both me and my music.
The flickering light of a nearby candle lit her face not golden but a ghastly yellow. For a moment it occurred to me that she was already dead and that I was imagining the sound. I was so transfixed by the horror of her form that for several seconds I did not see below her what was a far more grotesque sight.
As I entered, Olivia ceased plucking and stepped out from behind the harp. I could not take my eyes off her, though the sight was appalling. The grin on her thin white lips was so repugnant it made my stomach lurch. It was the look of death itself.
“You could not resist the sound, I see,” she said in a voice that sent chills through me. “You have come to rescue your Queen.”
I stood like a statue. I had stepped into a dreadful horror movie.
“Is it really worth your life, Marie?” she went on. “For that is what finding your harp will cost you. Yes, Marie, you have just given your life into my hands. Neither you nor your precious queen…by mortal eyes will again be seen.”
Hearing the rhyme awoke me from my terrified reverie with reminders of Ranald Bain and his strength in battling the demons of Olivia’s control. Could I be as strong? My eyes slowly accustomed themselves to the light, and the room filled with odd shapes and apparent furnishings and carvings and stone benches. My visi
on drifted back to the Queen. An object, a figure of some kind, was seated low below where Olivia had stood, seemingly leaning against the soundboard for support, with fingers on the lower strings. There was no movement, no sound. The bony fingers were still, as if being held in place by the strings themselves.
As I gazed, a horror spread through my frame, chilling my blood to ice.
The fingers were not fingers, but bones! The form was a human skeleton propped against the Queen, its fingers hooked grotesquely to the strings to mimic play, its skull partially obscured by the harp’s post.
As she saw my eyes at last taking in her ghoulish exhibition, Olivia burst into a revolting death rattle. The whole room echoed with a frightful laugh of insanity. The ring of keys I had carried from the house fell from my hands and clanked as they hit the stone floor.
“My God, Olivia!” I exclaimed. “Oh, Lord…help me…Lord Jesus…Olivia, what have you done?!”
I crept closer to the abhorrent grisly display that could have been imagined only by a psychopath.
A silver chain and locket hung from the neck beneath the skull of the hideous form. Grimacing in terror lest my eyes should drift to the two vacant sockets where once human eyes had been, I reached to pull it closer. On the locket was engraved, Winifred Bain, From Mummy and Daddy.
“Good Lord…Oh, God…Olivia…what have you done?!” I repeated, unable to distinguish between prayers, outrage, and terror. “In the name of Jesus…Oh, what did Ranald say—you lying devil…Olivia, what kind of madness—”
“Yes, it is Winny!” Olivia laughed repulsively, moving slowly across the floor. “Now you and she shall make music together…the music of death! Ha! Ha! You have your precious harp, but now at last the castle will be mine!”
“Olivia, you are dying,” I implored, not even noticing her movements, paying no attention as she slowly picked up the keys and moved away from me. “You need help. This is insane. What are you—”
“Ha! Ha! You are the one who is dying, Marie! They will never find you. They have not found Winny all these years. This is your burial tomb, Marie…you and Winny and all the dead monks to console you just like they kept Winny company when I brought her here—to show her a secret, I told her. Ha! Ha! Their bones and their skulls will keep you company as darkness falls around you, and you slowly lose your mind. Ha! Ha! You can play to your heart’s content! Make music if you can, while life remain…you and the silent Winny Bain. Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Suddenly, and with a speed I did not imagine her capable of, she dashed for the door. Before I could recover myself, I heard the clank of a massive bolt, followed by a faint laugh from the other side.
I ran to it and tried the latch, pushed and shoved and called after her, but the door was fast. Like a tidal wave, the terror of my predicament overwhelmed me.
I was locked in what I now realized was no storage room but the ancient monastery crypt with Winny Bain and my Queen and what I did not doubt were more dead men’s bones from ages past than I could imagine.
Chapter Sixty-two
Trapped
Now farewell light—thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky.
May coward shame disdain his name,
The wretch that dare no’ die!
—Robert Burns, “MacPherson’s Lament”
How long I stood facing the solid-oak door of my prison in stunned disbelief, I have no idea. I still couldn’t fathom that Olivia would really leave me to die. The thing was beyond comprehension. Yet behind me as I stood, I knew the skeleton of Winny Bain was all the proof I needed.
When and how the reality of sheer horror fully sinks in to the point when you realize you are not dreaming, that you may actually be about to die…is a slowly dawning consciousness of finality, of inevitability. What words can describe what goes through your mind? Your brain is overflowing yet weirdly empty and numb, every thought bound up in denial.
Olivia was obviously not coming back. I had no doubt that even now, summoning some final measure of devilish strength, Olivia was shoving and lifting the stones into place to block up the walled portion of tunnel through which she had lugged the Queen and lured me to my own tomb. Help would not come from behind the oak door.
After an interminable time, slowly I turned and shrank down, leaning against the wood as I stared at the stones of the floor. I still didn’t dare look into the candlelit crypt. I began to cry.
I sat and cried for what seemed hours, petrified with fear, chilled to the bone.
Eventually my brain began to function, hardly at full strength but at least with an attempt to think. I told myself I had to get a grip on myself. Summoning whatever minimum of courage I possessed, slowly I lifted my head, climbed to my feet, and began to look around.
Not only did no one know where I was, no one even knew this place existed. I was obviously in the legendary crypt beneath the church. Ranald was two miles away, Iain thirty. No one would find me unless Olivia divulged my whereabouts. That was clearly not going to happen. What story she would tell to account for being missing, I could not imagine.
I turned off the flashlight to conserve batteries. I then walked about and extinguished all but two of the candles and began a search of the place for more, and also matches.
I tried desperately to avoid looking at Winny’s remains, though I would eventually have to deal with the fact that I was trapped with her bones.
I saw a pole whose purpose I could not determine leaning against a wall. I grabbed it and beat and whacked on all the walls and ceiling, but everything was solid. There was obviously no communication with the church above. However the crypt had once been reached from the church had been blocked up long ago. I was at least thirty feet belowground. No one could possibly hear me.
There was, however, a faint smell as from the sea. With it came an occasional flicker from the candles. It must be just as Iain said, there must be a tunnel from here to the shore, I thought to myself. It was obviously my only hope of a way out.
I located its entry easily enough, a small opening through a portion of wall. Through it came a faint breeze. As I put an ear to the opening, I imagined that I could just hear the sound of waves. They must have been a mile away, perhaps two. The smell of the salt water gave me hope. Whether the tunnel behind the opening was passable, and whether it was possible to get through to the other side, and then to the shore without drowning in some tidal pool, was another matter. One thing for sure, I needed to protect the candles from a sudden draft. If I lost light, I would really be in trouble!
The opening to the tunnel wasn’t more than six inches square, a tiny window through a former door or passage. It had been blocked and bricked up with stones not dry-set, but securely mortared in place. It seemed utterly unlikely, but what other explanation could exist but that Olivia herself had done so after luring Winny into the crypt, sealing her into her own grave, with just enough opening to give her air to breathe until she died of starvation. The thing was too gruesome to think about. But how had she blocked it up from the seaward side, with Winny probably screaming for her life, when Olivia was no more than a teenager herself? It was beyond fathoming, and indicated hideous premeditation. Or had the whole story about seeing Winny along the shore before her disappearance been a fabrication? Had Olivia lured her down through the castle just as she had me, and then made up the other story?
I would never know. And how long had she been planning to kill me in the same way? What story might she be telling about where I was?! What if they were searching for me…but miles and miles away?
I examined every inch of the area surrounding the little window from top to bottom. It was of solid stone at least fourteen inches thick. It would take picks and tools and hammers to chip out an opening large enough to squeeze through. There was nothing resembling such a tool anywhere.
The silence was deeper than could be imagined—awful, terrifying, even if for a moment I happened to forget who—or what!—I was entombed with. Finally I lay down
in a corner, crouched into a ball and cried again, and eventually fell asleep.
Chapter Sixty-three
Above Ground
Och, och mar tha mi! here so lonely,
Despair has seized me and keeps his hold.
Oh were I near thee in Islaw only,
Before tho’st taken that man for gold.
—“The Islay Maiden"
In the castle no one had an inkling I was missing until well into the morning. It was not until about noon that Cora, then Alicia, then Nicholls began to wonder aloud to one another that no one had seen me. When I did not answer their knocks at my quarters and the studio showed no sign of my presence, still they did not worry, assuming, it being a fine day, that I had gone for a walk, perhaps up to visit Ranald Bain. But when one student, then two, then three all appeared for lessons that afternoon, and still there was no sign of me, they began to worry.
Nicholls drove up to Ranald’s. He had seen nothing of me. A call was placed to Iain and a message left to telephone the castle as soon as he was home from work.
The mystery was all the more peculiar in that Sarah reported finding Olivia asleep in her bed that morning, insisting that she had never been gone at all. She had not felt well and had remained in bed the entire previous day and through the night. The police were notified and the search for her called off, but the mystery remained. Sarah did say that Olivia seemed more fatigued and wild-eyed than normal.
By the time Iain arrived at the castle about eight that evening, panic about my absence was setting in. He tried to calm everyone, but Cora and Alicia were beside themselves. Both were convinced that Olivia knew more than she was telling. Her reappearance at the exact time I had gone missing could not be coincidental. But no information could be extracted from Olivia, who played the soft-spoken concerned invalid to perfection. The fact that she was too weak to get out of bed even to go to the bathroom without Sarah’s help seemed to confirm the impossibility of her having harmed me.
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