My attacker and the rest of the Peckish Dead fell away. I bounced around inside the carriage like a marble on a roulette wheel.
“You all right in there, sir?” the driver called.
I dared to poke my head out. “Yes, quite! Are you?”
“They got me good and proper,” he said, in a philosophical tone. “They get everybody around here sooner or later. I guess it was my turn. But if you don’t mind, sir, I’ll drop you off here. It’s only half a mile to the station. You’ll be quite all right; they won’t attack again now they’ve had their snack.”
Before I could raise any objection, he brought the carriage to a stop. He dropped my case from the roof and then opened the door. The hand that ushered me out was bleeding: the fingertips were gone.
They had made more of a meal of his other hand. Three of the fingers and half of the thumb had been nibbled off.
“Good lord!” I exclaimed, declining his assistance and stepping to the ground.
The Peckish Dead had taken his nose. The driver had tied his scarf around the hole. Blood seeped through the cloth, making the green tartan one red.
“You need a doctor,” I advised.
“Bless you, sir. It doesn’t hurt. It’s more the inconvenience. But at least they’ve cured me of picking my nose, eh!” He climbed back to his seat and wrapped the reins around his palms. “Station’s over yonder. Good luck to you, sir.”
He drove away. More than a little nonplussed, I gave my case a kick, an action I regretted instantly. Hopping around and cursing my stubbed toe, I wondered if I wouldn’t be better off out of it, whether I should go to the station and return to London. I could send word to Cuthbert to explain my absence from old Whatsisface’s croft...
No. I knew as soon as I thought it, it would never happen. I could not abandon Cuthbert in this place of intrigue and horror. We would leave together.
Or not at all.
I pushed my case to the roadside and concealed it behind a rock. I would have to make do with whatever I found in the old man’s cottage - which, by my reckoning and recollection of the maps I had seen, was a couple of miles west of where I was standing, in the next valley.
And so, mindful of hungry dead boys and invisible portals, both of which could crop up at any second, I picked my way across the devastatingly gorgeous landscape in the hope of reaching my destination before dusk.
Chapter Seven
I found the croft untouched, the door ajar. Auld Jock Hitchin had left in a hurry to bring us that blasted beetle - a good deed that had resulted in him being sucked off the face of the Earth. Poor bugger. I suspected it was his custom and practice to leave his house thus unsecured. There were no burglars out here and, moreover, the old coot had nothing worth the stealing.
The fire in the grate had long since died out. I poked at the ashes but there was no life left in them. There were plenty of logs beside the hearth - the idea occurred to me that Auld Jock had lost his fingers chopping wood, but the memory of my encounter with the Peckish Dead reminded me there is not a rational explanation for all things.
I made sure the door was shut and bolted behind me.
To keep out the draughts, I told myself, but I knew this was a lie. It was going to be a long night. A long, cold night unless I found a means of keeping myself warm. Rough blankets from a lopsided cot reeked of the old man and spilled whiskey (surely a capital offence in Scotland!). Hats and scarves hung from hooks behind the door. In a drawer, gloves - fingerless, of course. Just the thing for a victim of the Peckish Dead! There were also paintbrushes and plenty of them - the kind an artist would use. Oil paints too, in flat curls like squashed worms with their insides oozing out. Finally, a bottle of whisky. It would serve to warm me from the inside out.
Swaddled and seeking to be sozzled, I curled up in the armchair, stewing in self-pity. I must have been halfway down the bottle when I nodded off. Perhaps minutes passed, perhaps hours, before I woke with a start.
A tap at the window!
Fear enclosed me in its icy grip and all the efforts I had made to keep warm came to naught. I froze, in more ways than one, my ear cocked.
The tapping came again, louder and more insistent. They certainly are persistent devils, these Peckish Dead. Perhaps they would not show up so frequently if they got a decent-sized meal inside them, but I was not about to enter into a discussion with them about adequate portion size. I cowered in the armchair, hoping they would go away. They must have liked the taste of Auld Jock’s fingers and come back for seconds.
“Hector!” said a voice. “Hector Mortlake!”
That brought me up sharp. I do not recall the Peckish Dead and I being formally introduced. I ransacked my memory for names from Sally’s story.
“Rab?” I called back, my voice tremulous. “Is that you?”
“Who’s Rab?” came the reply. “It’s me, Cuthbert, you plum.”
Overjoyed, I leapt from my seat. My feet became tangled in the blankets and I fell flat on my face. Laughter from the other side of the window! Furious, I opened the door and pulled Cuthbert inside.
“Evening,” he chuckled. “Thought you could do with something to warm you up. Namely, me.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “Here, let’s get that fire going, shall we? What are you like?”
He pecked me on the cheek and then dropped to his knees. It was the work of minutes to get a hearty fire cracking in the hearth and heartening pools of lights spilling from a couple of lanterns.
“Ain’t this cosy?” he beamed, pleased with his handiwork. He pulled me into an embrace. “Now,” his breath tickled my ear, “Who’s this Rab?”
I explained it was one of those unfortunate children the cook had told me about. Cuthbert laughed.
“You thought I was one of the Peckish Dead? Charmed, I must say!”
“Well, I-”
“Well, I couldn’t have been, could I? Think about it. Did you see the boy in white before I showed up? Drownded wossname.”
“Ned. No.”
“There you are, then. And next time,” he poked my belly with an admonishing finger. “The next time you think one of them things is calling your name, don’t bleedin’ answer it.”
I blushed. It had been a foolish move on my part, but I was also aggrieved that he thought he could get away with speaking to me in that fashion. I pushed him away.
“I’ll remind you, sirrah, that here you are the valet.”
He rolled his eyes. “I was hoping to be off-duty. Sir.”
Of course, I relented. I climbed down from my high horse and into his arms.
Half an hour later, we were both exhausted and sweating - and not from sitting too close to the fire.
***
When morning came, Cuthbert ungallantly kicked me out of bed, demanding I make him breakfast. He had brought provisions, having raided Sally’s larder, reminding me that the map of secret passages could gain him access to anywhere in Baird Hall. He watched with rising amusement as I puttered around, clueless and getting nowhere.
“I shall have starved to death!” He put the back of his hand to his forehead and feigned a melodramatic swoon. “Would you have me join the ranks of the Peckish Dead?”
“Even you, my love, with your youthful beauty and tireless vigour are too old for that particular club. They’re little boys - or they were. God knows what they are now.”
I recounted the attack I had experienced, any pretence of making breakfast forgotten. As I told my tale, Cuthbert got dressed and took over the domestic duties, with a sort of absent-minded efficiency I envied. His whole attention seemed to be on me and my story.
When it was over, he steered me to the table and sat me down. He set two places and poured tea from an incongruously fancy teapot, which I suspect was also Sally’s.
“You poor ol
d thing,” he pouted as he delivered plates of hot food to the table. He took a seat opposite mine and bade me tuck in. I found I was ravenous but no sooner had I seized on Auld Jock’s mismatched cutlery when Cuthbert distracted me from my devouring. He held up a gloved hand - one of the old coot’s fingerless jobbies - and said, “Behold! I am the Peckish Dead!”
He proceeded to bite off his own fingers and chew them with gusto. Horrified, I pushed away from the table and, scrambling with the bolts, I flung open the front door and threw myself outdoors. He followed, laughing with his mouth full of meat.
“Keep away!” I warned, although I had no idea what I would do if he continued his approach.
Still laughing, he peeled off the glove to reveal his fingers, intact and waving at me.
“Your face!” he was almost bent double. Confusion reigned until he explained it was all a practical joke involving one of the old man’s gloves and a handful of Sally’s bangers.
I was furious.
“You gave me the idea,” he accused. “You said you’d fended one off with your sausage.”
“You’re a beastly oaf,” I declared, “To play such a cruel trick!”
“Aww, I’m sorry,” he pouted. Insincerity poured out of him; he was enjoying himself too much to make a meaningful apology.
“I am going indoors to break my fast in a civilised and grown-up fashion,” I announced. “Please do not dare to follow.”
With my nose in the air, I strode back inside and closed the door with a resounding slam. It was highly satisfying to be the injured party, to occupy the moral high ground - a rare occurrence, I’ll admit.
I slid the bolt as loudly as I could manage. Let him stew out there, I thought smugly, retaking my seat and tucking in.
It was not long before the pleas and complaints started at the window. I did not respond but continued to eat, calm and collected as though I could not hear a bloody word of his entreaties, and as though I was not greatly amused by this sudden turnabout. I almost choked on Sally’s kipper.
“Fine!” he said at last. “I shall go alone. Be so kind as to pass out my bag and boots and I shall trouble you no further.”
I squirmed, fighting back the desire to ask, “Go where?”
The boots he mentioned were of a stout walking variety and the bag a neat knapsack bulging with maps and guidebooks. He was looking for the Hole; I would wager my sporran on it.
I opened the kitchen window just enough to drop the items through it. I closed it again and drew the curtain against his thanks, which were no doubt riddled with hypocrisy.
There followed an excruciating few minutes in which I stood frozen like a startled stag, forcing myself to stand my ground. Then, sure that he would have moved off, I set to tidying away the breakfast things - not from any sense of domestic duty or respect for Auld Jock’s property but merely as a way to keep myself occupied.
“Dash it all!” I threw a threadbare dishcloth to the floor.
Seconds later, I was heading out in pursuit, stepping into my boots and hitching on my jacket at the same time.
There is one thing I wish to make perfectly clear. I was in no way chasing after him to beg his forgiveness. No. Rather I was being the grown-up in this situation by allowing him a second opportunity to apologise. If it fell to me to extend the gentlemanly hand of reconciliation, so be it.
I hurried after him, eager to make that extension. How petty we can be to those closest to us! We jeopardise what is dearest and most precious in this world over some bloody-minded nonsense, a matter of foolish pride!
And so, I determined to offer Cuthbert every chance to grovel at my feet and atone for his - do you know, I can hardly remember the bone of contention between us! Ah, yes! His grisly attempt at humour, mocking my genuine fear of the Peckish Dead.
Being the bigger man (in one sense, at least) I resolved to let him off the hook as soon as I clapped eyes on him.
I scrambled up the fell and was soon puffing and panting like a fat man on his wedding night. At the summit, I scoured the scene. There was Cuthbert on the neighbouring peak, walking with a sturdy branch he had acquired from somewhere (a tree probably; I am no expert) and appearing anything but heartbroken over the rift between us - and I don’t mean the valley between peaks. He paused to consult a chart and a compass and then moved on. I would lose sight of him if I didn’t shift myself and sharpish.
Determined to cross the divides, both emotional and geographical, I plunged into the valley, every step jarring my jaw. I ascended the other side and attained Cuthbert’s summit - he was, rather too nonchalantly for my liking, at the bottom of the next valley, counting out his steps as though measuring something.
I caught sight of someone else, a man on another peak in the distance. He was standing behind something white. My jaw dropped. Out here in the open! A sheep enthusiast! Some people have no decorum - It’s people like that the law should be prosecuting. It’s not right or normal or decent or –
I dismissed the pervert from my mind and called out, “Halloo!” to Cuthbert, rather enjoying the way my voice echoed, rebounding off the enclosing slopes. Cuthbert stopped what he was doing at once and sought the source of the voice. When he saw me, he waved the map in the air. A white flag, I thought. It was about time.
I made my way toward him; his waving became more frantic and he called out to me, something about staying back and keeping away.
Charming!
After I had come all this way to extend my gentleman’s courtesy!
I strode toward him, ready to have it out. He came toward me, waving and shouting and calling me a silly, stubborn goose.
And then he vanished.
One second he was there and the next he wasn’t.
It appears he had found that blasted Hole and it had claimed him for its latest victim.
I stood stock still and staring. How frustrating! I still had a piece of my mind to give him and now it looked like I would never get the chance.
Cuthbert was gone.
I dropped to my knees - somewhat redundantly, you might think - and sobbed.
To part on such bad terms and him calling me a silly, stubborn goose! Why would he use such a term? Had I not come out to meet him with the express purpose of making up our quarrel? If anyone is the silly, stubborn goose it is he. All that waving and shouting and warding me off –
Oh.
A fresh stab of pain sundered my heart. I realised what all the shouting and waving had been for. He was trying to keep me away from the Hole and, in coming forward to prevent my approach, my Cuthbert, my sweet and lovely Cuthbert, had sacrificed himself.
In utter despair, I dropped my face to my hands and wept. Oh, Cuthbert!
Something cold and wet nuzzled its way under my kilt, startling me out of my grief. A mass of russet and white fur was snuffling away at my private places. I leapt to my feet.
It was a dog. A collie that seemed to have materialised out of thin air. It barked a merry greeting, its bushy tail wagging vigorously.
“Hello, boy,” I stroked its head and ruffled its ears. A brass tag on its collar revealed the creature’s name to be Cassie.
“Hello, girl,” I amended my salutation. “Bit of a coincidence, what! Auld Jock Hitchin had a collie called Cassie but the Bickerses lost it in that blasted Hole...”
I sat back, stunned by my own words. Cassie took full advantage of the opportunity to paw at my chest and lick my face.
Of course ... Sometimes things come out of the Hole too. That bloody beetle was one thing and now here was this dog as living proof that the Hole could be survived!
Cheered by this, I gathered up Cuthbert’s bag and charts.
“Come on, girl,” I clicked my tongue. “Let’s get you some luncheon.”
The dog trotted happily beside me all the way t
o Auld Jock’s croft. If only she could tell me where she had been!
And, more importantly, how she had found her way back.
Chapter Eight
Cassie remembered her way home and picked up the pace the closer we got to that ramshackle croft. When it came into view, she froze. Her hackles rose and her lips (if a dog may be said to have them) curled back from her teeth. Guttural growls rumbled in her chest.
“What is it, girl?” I said stupidly, as though she might answer. I could see for myself.
A pony and trap stood outside the property; I recognised the conveyance from a previous encounter. Laird Baird was waiting in the open-topped carriage, his hands resting on the head of his cane.
“Easy, girl,” I advised my canine companion. I was not looking forward to the interview. How was I to tell him his grandson had not only disappeared from his life for a second time but off the face of the Earth entirely?
Steeling myself, I approached the vehicle, imagining an iron bar reinforcing my backbone. The technique was successful up to a point - I neglected to imagine my knees were not quivering bags of jelly.
Laird Baird’s eyes widened as he witnessed my ungainly approach but he did not seem at all surprised to see me.
“If you are seeking the old crofter,” I began but he cut me off by raising a hand.
“I came to seek you,” he said gruffly. “I surmised this is where you would be.”
My mouth fell open. Cassie stayed close to my calves, growling softly. His Lordship smiled grimly. “The stationmaster reports that you did not board the train. There is nothing that goes on in this glen that I don’t find out about.”
I returned his stare. “Then you will know that I possess a motor car, a horseless carriage, and therefore have no need of trains.”
His Lordship gave me a look of such contempt, as though I were the worst kind of contrarian and anarchist. “And yet your contraption - another unnatural practice! - has singularly failed to convey you away from here. I ordered you off my property. This croft and its appurtenances, all the land you can see in every direction, belong to me.”
Beware The Peckish Dead! Page 6