I did not get much sleep that night. Full of scorpions was my mind and I tossed and turned (less of the former and more of the latter) until exhaustion claimed me at last.
Chapter Four
After what seemed like the passing of a few seconds, I was awakened by stark, searing sunlight streaming in through the skylight. Why waste money on alarm clocks for the servants? I swore and sat up. I supposed Cuthbert would be expecting a cup of tea in bed and it fell to me to take it to him.
This is not the kind of role reversal I enjoy.
I fished out my least flamboyant shirt, my darkest waistcoat and my severest trousers. Do I look like a valet, I wondered? There was, of course, no mirror in my Spartan apartment. My best guess was I might pass for a waiter in a gypsy tea room. I tied back my hair with a shoelace and headed down to the bowels of the house, to the kitchen where Sally Forth was already hard at it.
The air was thick with the aroma of something frying but the cook was not at the stove. The pan had been set aside so she could administer first aid to a fellow, an agglomeration of tweed and tartan, huddled at the table and wincing as Mrs Forth wrapped a crepe bandage around the fellow’s hand.
“Och, ye’ll want to have the barber surgeon look at that.” She applied a safety pin. The fellow grumbled something unappreciative and possibly blasphemous.
“Morning, chick!” The cook had noticed me. “Come and join us. I’ll fetch you a cuppa. Will ye want your breakfast?” She nodded at the pan. I should have guessed: black pudding. I uttered my refusal but pulled out a stool and sat opposite the man with the bandaged hand.
“Yonder is Seth,” Sally introduced us. “He’s the gamekeeper - well, what’s left of him. Seth, this is Thomas. He’s the wee master’s man.”
Seth barely afforded me a glance. He nursed his injured hand. Red blossoms were already seeping through the dressing.
“An accident?” I offered an ill-advised attempt to be civil. And now the fellow looked at me with undisguised contempt. His face was rough and red, like an old leather satchel, burnished by a lifetime’s exposure to Scottish weather. His chin and cheeks were grizzled with a frost of white stubble and his lips were sunken over his gums - the fellow had no teeth to speak of or, indeed, with.
“Weren’t no accident,” he growled. “Best to keep your nose out of it lest they snap it off.”
I recoiled as much from the dire warning as the fellow’s raging halitosis.
“They?” I queried with a hopeful look to Sally. She rolled her eyes and focussed on her spatula.
“The Peckish Dead!” the gamekeeper declaimed. He brandished his bandaged fist. “They got two of my fingers last night. Right down to the knuckle.”
I was more than a little alarmed, I have to say. Over at the stove, Sally shook her head.
“Pay no heed to this auld fool,” she placed a plate of black pudding in front of the gamekeeper, who proceeded to have difficulty manipulating his fork. “Drunk again and out setting his traps, I shouldn’t wonder at it.”
“Faugh,” said Seth, rather eloquently. He tucked into the black pudding, smacking his lips. Grease coursed down his chin. I turned away and tried to engage Sally in chitchat.
“I say, Mrs Forth?”
“Och, call me Sally, hen.” She returned to the table with a mug of tea.
“Who’s the young fellow I saw stalking around the grounds last night?”
She frowned. “Young fellow? I don’t know who you mean.”
“Oh, about fifteen or sixteen, I should say. Sort of roaming around. All in white.”
A look passed between cook and gamekeeper. Seth shook his head. Sally pushed errant strands of hair under her cap.
“Och, you shouldnae be wandering around late at night. Ye’ll catch a chill.”
“I didn’t,” I said. “I wasn’t. I saw the chap through Cuth - my master’s window-”
At this, Seth slapped the table with his uninjured hand and got to his feet. “Tell him!” he barked. Semi-masticated chunks of his breakfast fell to the floor. He shuffled from the kitchen. Sally took his plate away. She tried to hum a nonchalant tune but clearly she was unnerved by something.
“Tell me what?” I insisted.
“Och, pay that auld drunkard no mind.”
“Sally...Tell me: who was that boy?”
She joined me at the table, her features working as she steeled herself. She glanced down at her hands to stop them wringing, then she looked me squarely in the eye.
“That was Drownded Ned,” she said flatly. “That boy in white is Drownded Ned. He’s a ghost, of course.”
“Of course?”
“Och, don’t look at me like I’ve gone out,” she essayed a laugh. “Wee Ned’s harmless enough. In himself.”
“But...” I prompted.
“But,” she continued, “They do say that whenever Drownded Ned manifests himself, the Peckish Dead aren’t far behind.”
There was something matter-of-fact in her tone, something so utterly devoid of melodrama, that I was intrigued.
“So, Seth didn’t lose his fingers to an animal trap, then?”
“Och, maybe so, maybe not. I dread to think what that old fool gets up to when he’s in his cups. Now you’d better take that tea up to the wee master afore it grows cold.”
“Cold tea be hanged!” It was my turn to slap the table. My interest was aroused. Perhaps there would be a book in all of this... “Tell me now! Tell me about the Peckish Dead.”
Sally ran a hand down her rosy face and began.
***
The Peckish Dead
A long time ago, a group of orphan boys went out onto the loch. They were keen to get away from the grim drudgery of their existence, the cruelty of the neglect they endured, even if only for a day. They rowed out to an islet with a camping expedition in mind. A storm arose, and their boat was capsized. Their provisions were delivered to the bottom. The boys managed to scramble ashore. They huddled together on the beach, while the lightning cracked the sky and the storm raged. They were stranded with neither food nor shelter.
Somehow, they survived the night. When morning dawned, the eldest boy waded out to retrieve the boat. It had been smashed against the rocks but, undaunted, the boys scoured the island for materials to effect a repair. One - the youngest - returned, holding his shirt front up as a makeshift punnet for the berries he had gathered during his search. The boys breakfasted on the berries and by nightfall had patched up the boat. Come the dawn, said the eldest, we shall return to the mainland and all will be well.
But through the night, the boys fell ill. Cramps bent them in half. Sweat poured from them as the colour drained from their faces. They writhed in agony and called for the mothers they had never known. Even the eldest, whose name was Ned, cried out for succour. But none was forthcoming.
Morning found the boys in no condition to row back to the mainland. They passed the day in languor and the next day too. With the berries cleared from their systems, they were weak but had no food to build their strength. Surely someone will look for us, said Rab, the second eldest. Ned was doubtful. They know not where we went, he said. They must think us drowned. At this, the younger boys wailed. Another search of the island was made but there was nothing to eat. Rab proposed they build a beacon; its flame would be seen for miles around. And so, the boys gathered sticks and twigs and pulled up reeds and long grasses and made a heap. Ned struck two sharp stones together until sparks flew and the grass ignited. Within moments, the beacon was ablaze. But, untutored in these matters, the boys had failed to make the pile secure. It toppled and soon the whole island was on fire. There was only one means of escape: the boat. The boys flung themselves in. Ned and Rab ran, pushing the boat into the water, clambering in when they were away from the beach. But they had no oars to paddle their way across the loch
. They drifted, watching the island burn - surely someone would come; the beacon was much bigger than they had envisaged.
No one came. Either the orphans were not missed or no one cared.
The water was becalmed, the air oppressive. Ned offered to swim for help; Rab scoffed. It was too far, he said. Ned would drown. But Ned, as the eldest, believed it behoved him to save the others. He dove into the water and headed for a shore too far away for them to see. The boys waited, huddling together, their lips cracked and their throats parched. The rumbling of their empty bellies was as ominous as thunder.
“We’re hungry, Rab,” they wailed, getting on the older boy’s nerves. He watched the surface of the water, for signs of Ned, for signs of rescue, waving the boys to be quiet. But there was only silence beneath their grizzling, no sound other than their stuttering sobs.
Days passed. The boys were sickening, fading fast. The youngest fainted and could not be revived. Rab was forced to make a terrible decision. He took out his penknife and ordered the other boys to look away. They must not see what he must do.
He stood over the unconscious child and reached for the boy’s pale hand.
“Eat!” he told the others. “Just a little titbit to tide you over.”
The boys gnawed at the severed fingertips hungrily, sucking the blood from the flesh, the marrow from the bones.
There followed another day of being stranded. By nightfall, the hunger pangs returned, redoubled and irresistible. Rab reached for the littlest boy’s other hand.
For weeks, Rab kept them all alive. They lived on the fingers and toes of each other. Ears, too. Chins. Other extremities...
Ned never returned. The help he had set out to fetch never came.
Rab, his shirt torn into bandages for the wounds of the boys, despaired. If they were to survive, he would have to take the next, terrible, irreversible step. He would have to kill the smallest, Wee Wullie, so the rest might stay alive...
And then, a miracle! Young Stewie saw it first and his throat, so dry, his voice little more than a whisper, tried to alert the others. He stumbled to his feet and almost toppled over. He pointed a stump, bound in the grubby rags of Rab’s shirt.
A boat! A boat was drawing nearer!
The others got to what was left of their feet and waved and cheered. Rab was the most delighted. He had been spared making a terrible choice.
The local parson rowed steadily toward the boys in the boat. He had set off for his monthly fishing trip and had been attracted to this part of the loch by something white swimming ahead of him. A fish, he thought, the size of which he had never seen in these waters. A friendly dolphin - No, that was silly! There were no dolphins in this landlocked lake. A boy then, he realised, as he followed the figure. A boy in white! A merman!
And then he was gone!
Whatever it was drew the parson to the boat of lost boys.
“Praise the Lord!” he called out. “You are saved!”
Yes, thought, Rab. I am!
But when the parson’s craft was near enough, the boys sprang onto it and launched themselves at the man. They seized his hands and feet, his nose and other parts and ate them. The parson struggled and screamed as best as he could. His eyes pleaded with Rab. Call them off, said the parson’s eyes. But Rab stayed where he was.
I have done this to the boys, he realised. I have made them monsters. No! This is all Ned’s fault. He was the eldest; he was in charge and he left us!
Rab let the boys have their feed. This is what they are, he thought. This is what we have become.
Since that time, it is believed that a sighting of the boy in white heralds the coming of the Peckish Dead, come to satiate their hunger, to satisfy their craving for the flesh of the living.
Chapter Five
Sally regarded me with an expectant look, awaiting my reaction. A couple of years ago, I would have dismissed the whole business as a crock of superstitious claptrap. Experience has taught me there are more things between heaven and earth than are dreamt of in anyone’s philosophy.
“What are you telling me?” I returned her stare. “I saw this Drownded Ned last night, as a result of which, some drunkard of a gamekeeper gets a couple of his fingertips nibbled off by the undead forms of a gang of orphans?”
“Ye can put tae and tae taegether if you like,” she smirked. “But it’s an awful good story, you must admit.”
“Awful is one of the words I’d use,” I agreed. “I think I shall choose to believe your first account. Old Seth, inebriated, lost his fingers to one of his traps.”
“Suit yourself.” She rose and took away my cup. “But for your own sake, don’t think slightingly of the local legends. There’s mickle folk around here wi’ bits missing on account of those wee boys. All I’ll tell you is if you see Drownded Ned again, run fae your life.”
She stalked melodramatically from the kitchen. I was rather unsettled; I have to admit. I went to seek Cuthbert’s views on the topic.
***
He was sitting up in his four-poster bed, a breakfast tray on the coverlet, and he was tucking into toast and marmalade. While he masticated, I told him of my encounter with the gamekeeper and the yarn the cook had spun.
“Oh, that old nonsense,” he said, spraying breadcrumbs. “I’ve heard that story so many times. They’re having you on, I expect. I shouldn’t be surprised if the next time you see him, Old Seth’s fingers will have somehow miraculously grown back. You didn’t actually see the injuries, did you?”
“Well, um...” Dash it all! The hand was already bandaged by the time I arrived. Was it all a ruse, then? A practical joke to frighten the new servant?
Then I remembered the white wraith I’d seen through Cuthbert’s bedroom window. I demanded his explanation. He waved his butter knife in a dismissive fashion.
“Oh, it’s probably one of the stable boys or bootblacks sleepwalking, I shouldn’t wonder.”
I let out an unconvinced grunt.
“Or it was all a set-up. Seth and Sally put him up to it, precisely to give you a fright. I’d say it’s worked.”
“How can you be so calm?” I just about refrained from stamping my foot. “After all we have been through and all the things we have seen!”
He reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s just an old story. Trust me. We have other fish to fry, remember. The Bickerses’ beetle and the travelling portal.”
He was right. He suggested that after I had shaved him, we repair to his grandfather’s library. There we would access the Laird’s comprehensive collection of maps of the entire county.
“Just a minute,” I interrupted. “What was that about me shaving you?”
“You’re my valet, are you not?”
“Not really. And what is it with this hoity-toity mode of address? I want my Cockney Cuthbert back.”
He patted my cheek. “And you shall have him. When - my business is concluded. For the time being, I think it best for us to stay in character.”
“Business? What business?”
“Nothing for you to worry about,” he smiled. “Now, be off and iron my newspaper, you lazy tyke!”
He was smiling but he was also in earnest; he was enjoying bossing me around a little too much for my liking.
***
Later, our ablutions abluted and our fasts broken, Cuthbert showed me to his grandfather’s library - after a wrong turn led us to a conservatory. Cuthbert blushed and ascribed the error to his long years of absence.
The library was like a haven for writers. All the great works were present, bound in leather and tooled in gold, regimented in rows - an army of literature and thought. As I scoured shelf after shelf, Cuthbert sneered.
“It’s no good seeking out your own meagre volumes,” he advised, rather cruelly in my view. “Kiss of the Wate
r Nymph is hardly my grandfather’s kind of thing. And as for Xolotl Strikes!...”
I silenced him with a gesture. My second book had been no one’s kind of thing, alas.
“Have a butcher’s at this!” He invited me to inspect a technical drawing. It was an architect’s plan of Baird Hall. I failed to see the relevance. Cuthbert’s finger traced lines and tapped at features. “Look! Secret passages! Hidden doorways!”
“What of them?”
“Don’t you get it? We can use this! We can sneak around and have what-do-you-call-ems, assignations? Right under the old man’s nose!”
The idea had merit, I had to concede. Cuthbert folded the paper and secured it in his pocket.
He took down hefty tomes like tombstones, great books of maps, and spread them on a table. “Come and have a butcher’s,” he beckoned me over, allowing me a glimpse of his customary Cockney. Which is the real persona, I wondered? Not the one I was used to, I’d wager.
The maps were all Greek to me - or they might as well have been. Cuthbert’s finger followed swirling lines across a landscape of ink, of squiggles and symbols I was unable to decipher. He pointed out places of interest: Auld Jock Hitchin’s croft, the site where the Bickerses discovered the beetle, and the spot where Auld Jock had himself disappeared before our very eyes.
I peered over Cuthbert’s shoulder noticing a spot of stubble I had missed below his jawline. Oops!
“What am I supposed to be seeing?” I said, savouring the proximity and the smell of the shaving soap.
The three points were not aligned, but two of them, the spots where the beetle popped up and the old man popped down, were in close proximity.
“Perhaps a larger scale...” He closed the book and opened another as broad as the table top. On this page, the two locations were farther apart but what did this tell us?
Bugger all.
Cuthbert, deep in thought, smoothed his hand over his face. His fingers found the patch my razor had neglected and he gave me a despairing look. As a valet, I was clearly deficient.
Beware The Peckish Dead! Page 4