Ash (10 page)

‘Okay, I’m impressed,’ said Ash, taking in the complex hi-tech centre console with its navigation display and rows of multi-functional control buttons. ‘But let’s get going.’

‘Right, Mr Ash. Lock ’n’ load. I’ve always wanted t’say that.’

They were out of the airport in less than a minute, Ash already relaxing into the sumptuous interior of the high-powered vehicle as it swept through the gates. He caught the driver giving him a quick once-over when they were on their way.

‘Is the heating all right for you, Mr Ash? Too warm, too cold?’

‘It’s just fine. Don’t change a thing.’

‘Some music then? Or local news?’

‘No, I’ll just enjoy the drive.’

He sank further into his seat.

‘How long have you been driving for Comraich Castle?’ he asked Dalzell.

The car slowed to turn off the main artery into a narrow hedge-lined lane.

‘Oh, now there’s a question.’ The driver squinted his eyes as if the answer lay beyond the windscreen. ‘Let’s see. It must’ve been four years now. M’partner and me, we were running our own chauffeur-drive service in and around Edinburgh when a representative for Comraich Castle approached us. Just in time, too – business was dire and getting worse. Tourism was bleak, particularly where the Americans were concerned.’

He shook his head regretfully as if the memory still irked him. ‘We depended mainly on USA tourists to keep us afloat, not just in summer, but during the cold months as well. Unfortunately, they were staying home, reluctant to risk air travel for a while. And who could blame them? That’s why it was good luck when Mr Maseby turned up with an offer we couldn’t turn down. We’d driven him once or twice before, so we weren’t unknown t’him.’

‘Simon Maseby?’

‘Aye, that’s the feller.’

‘And your contract’s with his entire company, not just with the part that runs Comraich Castle?’ Ash guessed.

‘That’s right. One of the conditions, though, was that we had to drive exclusively for Comraich. No other clients, just the Comraich and Maseby people. And we had to live there to be on call, night or day. There’s quite a community of them – servants, maids, chefs, office staff and groundskeepers as well as doctors and nurses. It’s a little world of its own. And sometimes, we have visits from very special VIPs, but that’s kept all very hush-hush.’

Ash was even more curious. ‘Why would that be?’

‘I really don’t know. We collect ’em from the airport or sometimes we make the trip to London or elsewhere to bring them up, or we travel down to bring things back. Documents and the like. We’re kept busy, no two ways about that.’

‘I suppose the patients – sorry, “guests” – get quite a few visitors?’

‘Nae, nary a one. None allowed. That’s another condition of Comraich.’

Ash looked at him in surprise. Then he rested back in his seat again, deep in thought.

Although the day was overcast with a low blanket of metal-grey cloud, the landscape remained vivid in autumnal colours, the leaves of the trees gradually giving way to reds, browns and golden yellows, while among them, hardy evergreens declined to give up their year-round tones to the oncoming season. In the fields beyond the trees, cattle and sheep steadily munched their God-given grass and any tasty morsel found in the soil with it, instinctively aware that the cold season was fast approaching and inches-deep snow might soon cover nature’s usual sustenance so that they would have to rely solely on trough fodder.

The peace of gentle glens and distant hills, together with the car’s comfortable air-conditioned warmth, slowly lulled Ash into a soporific mood, with the driver’s incessant but softly spoken commentary on all they passed fostering the investigator’s drowsiness. Adrenaline flow caused by the morning’s near-fatal incident had slowly drained away to be replaced by a tempered sense of well-being.

Dalzell’s easy chatter ranged from the vernacular aspect of several single-storey roadside houses with hipped roofs, some of which were thatched with heather, to long-since abandoned vaulted tower mills. Then there were the weavers’ cottages, the open moorlands and more deep glens. The journey to Comraich was taking longer than he’d expected, and the route seemed unusually complex, with twists and turns, the main roads avoided for quieter narrow lanes.

Not for the first time during the drive, Ash’s thoughts returned to Delphine Wyatt.

‘How much further?’ he eventually asked, cutting through the driver’s jabber.

‘To Comraich? Oh, we’ll be there in no time at all,’ Dalzell responded. ‘I was instructed to bring you by the scenic route.’

‘Really? Any reason why?’

The chauffeur gave a small shrug of his shoulders. ‘I just do as I’m told. They probably wanted t’make the journey more pleasant for you.
Rach air muin
!’

Ash had no idea what they meant, but the driver’s last words sounded like an expletive. Then he saw what might have caused Dalzell’s sudden and unexpected ire.

The predominately white police car that had just rounded a bend ahead began slowing down so that both vehicles could squeeze past one another in the narrow lane.

Dalzell gave the two policemen in the other car a cheerful wave which was not reciprocated. Both policemen stared long and hard at Ash as their car eased by. The police car’s insignia was yellow and blue, and he noticed that on the bonnet was a logo with sans-serif lettering next to it. Out of curiosity, he leaned forward in his seat, angling his head to read the wording: STRATHCLYDE POLICE.

‘Friends of yours?’ he asked the blond chauffeur drily.

Dalzell scoffed good-humouredly. ‘Ach, no. They’re okay, unless they catch you doing the ton or weaving with the hooch.’ He snatched a look at Ash. ‘And I do neither – at least, not when I’m working. We call them
polis
, by the way,’ Dalzell added.

‘
Po-lis
. I like it. Less forbidding.’

‘Normally, we don’t see much of ’em – the area they cover is too far stretched. So if you’re thinking of calling ’em for some reason, be prepared for a long wait.’

‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ Ash answered flatly.

Foliage lightly brushed the glass and bodywork, so close was the Mercedes to the edge of the lane, and the Scot steered back into the middle.

Again Ash considered the length of the journey to Comraich. Because the sun was invisible behind leaden clouds, he’d lost all sense of direction a while back, and it was tempting to believe this was a deliberate ploy to confuse him and not paranoia on his part. Had his problem with alcohol (Simon Maseby was certainly aware of it at yesterday’s meeting) been tested, first by Ginny, the air hostess, then by Dalzell during their journey by road? Maybe the idea was to dull his wits so that this roundabout route to Comraich would confuse him. A couple of times he thought he recognized the same landmark, although approached from a different direction.

But why? It seemed pointless and simple-minded subterfuge to him. What could be gained from it?

Additionally, there had been no mention of Comraich Castle or its location on either of the two documents he’d signed with Kate: the contractor was Simon Maseby of Maseby Associates, and only the company’s London address was given. As far as the agreements were concerned, they were between the Psychical Research Institute and Maseby Associates, and discretion – no,
secrecy
– was a special feature of the deal.

He straightened his shoulders and stretched his arms out in front of him so that his fingers almost touched the dashboard. He rolled his head twice to loosen tension in his neck and shoulders, then, dropping his hands into his lap, he turned to the Scot.

‘Okay,’ he said to Dalzell. ‘Tell me about Comraich.’

The driver glanced his way and Ash thought he seemed a little put out. Maybe he really had expected Ash to have dozed off by now.

‘Comraich?’ the investigator reminded him meaningfully.

‘Y’mean its history?’ Dalzell asked, his attention on the road again.

‘Anything you’d like to tell me, except what’s happened recently.’

‘Well now, I cannae tell you too much about the place – it’s nae permitted. Every person employed there has signed a confidentiality agreement.’

‘But you’ve worked for the castle for – how many years did you say?’

‘Nigh on four. But y’see, m’partner and me, we don’t get too involved, we just drive.’

‘I’m sure you talk to other staff members,’ Ash said pointedly. ‘But look, I’m not concerned with any of that. What I’d like to know is something of the castle’s history.’ He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Dalzell seemed relieved.

‘Oh aye, I can tell y’about that, although you’ll nae be surprised if it’s nae too much. The castle has always been a kind of enigma in these parts. Its way off the beaten track, as y’ll see, and interlopers are made to feel unwelcome. Local people assume the castle’s some kind of ultra-discreet and very expensive sanitarium for the wealthy, and in a way that’s correct. It’s very inaccessible, and would-be trespassers rarely get near the castle itself.’

‘Tight security?’

‘And then some. But m’partner and me, we’re nae curious, y’ken? The wages are high and conditions are good. We were grateful for the opportunity to work there. We’ve ne’er looked back since.’

A little weary of being told how generous Comraich – or Maseby Associates – was to its employees, Ash came straight to the point. ‘How old is the castle? Has it any history of early hauntings?’

‘Hauntings, you say? Well now, that’s an interesting area for discussion. Did y’hear Comraich has a curse on it?’

Ash almost groaned aloud. What ancient bloody castle or mansion
wasn’t
cursed? As a ghost hunter he’d been assailed with such stories of curses on age-old buildings, including churches and pubs.

‘All right,’ he said wryly, ‘tell me about it.’

‘Ach, I dinnae ken the full story, but it was when the true clans were taking their revenge on the Scottish noblemen that had allied themselves with Edward I of England against Robert the Bruce, who was twice defeated in battle. That was near the beginning of the fourteenth century, a very troublesome time for Scotland.

‘It was the Laird Duncan McKinnon who owned Falaich Caisteal, as Comraich was known in those days. Hidden or concealed, it meant, because it was devilish to find unless you approached it from the sea. To this day, that’s where you’ll see the castle in its full glory, there on top of the
creag
, the cliff.

‘Anyway, Robert the Bruce eventually returned from hiding on a remote island off the Irish coast. He gathered his forces again and this time. . . oh, this time, he did battle with Edward II, who he defeated at the Battle of Bannockburn! That was in 1314, but it was only when Edward III was on the English throne that Scottish independence was declared. The year was 1328, and nae have we e’er forgotten it.’

Ash smiled as Dalzell chuckled. ‘So what was the curse?’

‘Aye. The Mullachd. I’m not sure of the details, but it’s the stuff of legend in these parts. The Laird McKinnon’s wife and daughters were flung from the castle battlements, to be dashed on the rocks below and their bodies swept out to sea. It was McKinnon himself who spat out the curse, just before he jumped of his own accord.’

The Mercedes was approaching a road junction, and Dalzell frowned as if worried he was giving away too much information on the castle. He turned right, joining other traffic travelling in the same direction.

‘So do you know why I’m going to Comraich?’

‘As I said, it’s an enclosed community. Word gets around, even though Sir Victor tried to keep a cap on it. Too many rummy things going on at the castle to hush them all up, though.’

‘Have you ever experienced anything unusual?’

The driver smiled grimly as he overtook a heavily loaded flatbed truck.

‘Nae,’ he said, as if disappointed. ‘But I’ve heard some peculiar stories from others who have. The whole bliddy place is full of such nonsense, and the medics have been dishing out tranquillizers like candy.’

‘They drug the patients?’

The Mercedes picked up speed on the broader stretch of road. ‘I cannae say any more, Mr Ash. It’s agin’ orders. Hope y’don’t mind, but it’s more than the job’s worth. And y’did say you didnae want to hear about the haunting.’

Of course, Dalzell was right. ‘Well, at least tell me about McKinnon’s curse,’ Ash prompted. ‘You can do that, can’t you?’

‘Oh, there was sommat about sending the fires of Hell to burn the castle to the ground.’

‘Not a very accurate curse, then.’

‘I’m not so sure. There was a fire in Falaich Caisteal sometime
after
the laird who’d had McKinnon and his family killed was long since dead, having peacefully passed away in his bed, at that. But the curse didnae die with him; the place was nearly destroyed by fire once and then again years later, when the castle had been restored. It’s why the castle has changed its name over the centuries.’

‘As you said.’

‘Another time it was known as Air Leth Caisteal, meaning isolated castle, which it certainly is to this day. But it seems bad things were always happening there; one time, for instance, the next owner had to flee with his family in the dead of night to escape its spite.’

‘Spite?’

‘Aye, I ken. Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? But that’s how they had it pegged in them days. After a few years, the castle was rebuilt yet again, or at least, the parts that had been ruined were. Some of the main rooms were brightened up too; cold and dark, it used to be, so I’m told. And of course, there was yet another name change, all in an effort to shake off the curse. It was called Uaigneach Caisteal this time, which means lonely, solitary, secluded, private, secret – take your pick. It was fine for a while, although the story is that nae tenants were ever happy there.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Ash. Half-jokingly, he added, ‘I think I see a pattern emerging here.’

‘Huh! But if y’saw it in the evening of a sunny day, when there’s a glorious sunset and the grey sandstone walls turn a mellow shade of pink, y’d never believe there was anything sinister about the place.’

The description sounded like a tour guide’s rehearsed patter.