Ash (19 page)

Ash felt sure that whatever had caught his attention had come from this area of the room. But now everything was still, motionless, just historical icons that had outlasted their use. But then it came again. A sudden vibration, as though something lived among the ancient armoury, perhaps an echo of its violent past.

Then he saw it.

It was the solid iron mace, with its evil-looking spiked, round head. His eyes were drawn to it, although it was now still. He was about to give up, telling himself it had been an illusion, that the mace was firmly mounted on its brackets and what he’d seen was merely a trick of the light. But then it came again. A slight twitching of its length and spiked head. And as he stared, aghast, it twitched once more. Then again, and again, until it was vibrating on its mounting, scratching the wall behind.

It seemed infectious, for the other weapons – the pikes, the halberds, the bows – now were all vibrating so that they made a rattling sound against the stone wall on which they hung. Ash stared, and retreated backwards as if the lethal implements of old wars could fly across the room to impale him.

‘Mr Ash. David?’

Derriman stood at his side, his expression a mixture of anxiety and confusion.

Ash looked at him swiftly, then back to the armoury . . . where all was quiet and inert.

‘Did you . . . ?’ He’d been about to ask the general manager if he’d witnessed what Ash himself had seen. And heard. But the room was now peaceful. Even the weapons had lost their sinister aspect.

‘Are you all right, David?’ Derriman asked with genuine concern. ‘Perhaps the atmosphere of the place has . . .’ Has what? The armoury looked perfectly normal to him, despite the nature of its exhibits. Perhaps the parapsychologist sensed what ordinary men and women couldn’t. How pale he looked.

‘David, you seemed shocked,’ Derriman said gently.

Ash groaned inwardly. Cynicism made him wonder if the scene just played out had been deliberately rigged to test his nerve. But no, that would be absurd. Such an elaborate trick would be a waste of time for everyone concerned.

‘Sorry, Andrew,’ he responded, silently cursing his own paranoia. Haelstrom himself had said the castle had a history of bloodshed and violence. A malign haunting was definitely feasible. ‘I’ve just got a bad feeling about that particular room,’ he tried to explain to the anxious general manager as they returned to the lift. ‘It happens from time to time.’

‘Because you’re psychic?’

‘Let’s just say I’ve been in the business of ghost hunting for some time. It tends to rub off on you in certain ways.’

‘But you saw no apparition?’

‘No, none at all. Just a bad feeling.’

With a heavy thud, the old-fashioned elevator arrived and distracted Derriman from asking more questions.

The thin, stooped man, with his long angular body and silver-grey hair, bore a worried expression as he pulled open the hefty wooden door to reveal a latticework iron safety door behind it. The gloomy cabin was empty of passengers.

‘Many of our clients are nervous of the lift,’ Derriman told Ash as he yanked the safety door aside. ‘Even Sir Victor prefers to take the stairs. Good exercise, he always says, but I think he’s a mite c-claustrophobic in small spaces.’

Ash could see why as he entered the dimly lit lift cage. As he leaned against the panel-sized mottled mirror on its back wall, the investigator realized how tired he was. Maybe the incident during the flight had scared him more than he cared to admit, its aftermath a depletion of energy.

His throat felt suddenly very dry.

Derriman had climbed aboard and was closing both doors, the heavy wooden one swinging shut almost by itself, the iron safety door having to be pulled across hard until its latch locked into its niche. Ash thought the old lift might hold three people comfortably, but more that that would be a squeeze.

The older man firmly pressed a button for the second floor and the lift juddered disconcertingly before ascending smoothly enough past the first floor.

‘Who’s at the top?’ Ash asked, settling his shoulder bag at his feet for the ride, defusing the unease caused by the sudden incident in the armoury.

‘Ah, the fifth floor,’ Derriman responded, turning to face him in the slow-rising lift car. ‘Only two people occupy that floor. One is Sir Victor himself, and the other . . .’ he hesitated, nervous again. ‘Well, let’s just say he’s a k-kind of overseer.’

Ash wondered whether the ‘overseer’ was the thin man with the pot-belly he’d noticed on his arrival at Comraich. ‘The latter has a name, I take it?’ he said a little caustically, tired of the runaround he’d been given for asking simple questions, not to mention the literal runaround on the car journey to Comraich.

‘Lord Edgar Shawcroft-Draker uses a suite when he stays, which isn’t very often. Other rooms on the fifth are generally used for meetings and such like; and, oh yes, you’ll find a small chapel there.’

Ash tried a long shot. ‘Is Shawcroft-Draker head of the IC?’

‘The IC?’ Derriman blinked nervously. ‘I’m sorry but, um, we rarely s-speak of the Inner Court to outsiders. I don’t want you t-to think I’m being evasive, but please understand.’ He stared curiously at the investigator, obviously uncomfortable.

Ash could tell that Derriman would prefer not to continue this line of questioning so he pressed him no further.

The lift juddered to a clanking halt and the pair stepped out into a long corridor, its carpet worn and faded with age, in direct contrast to the opulence below.

‘This way, David,’ Derriman said, gently offering a guiding hand.

Ash hoisted his bag over his shoulder and followed Derriman down the corridor. Despite the lack of luxury, the wide hall was still well maintained, he noticed, even if parts of the carpet were somewhat threadbare. Although it was still daytime, the wall lights were on and they gave out a softening glow. Ash guessed that the rooms on this, the second floor, were not for guests but for senior staff members and, perhaps, contractees such as himself.

‘This room is yours,’ Derriman announced, coming to a halt halfway down the corridor. He leaned towards the round brass handle and pushed the door open, then stood aside, allowing the investigator to enter first.

Ash was pleasantly surprised. The rooms along the second floor may have been staff quarters, but they had been well maintained, and the sight of an old-fashioned bed with clawed mahogany feet and a feather mattress delighted him. The view from the window overlooking the courtyard and the gardens beyond was beautiful, especially against the greens and golds of the woodland that stretched into the glen some distance away. A second window afforded a partial view of the sea.

He turned back to Derriman, noticing that his own large battered suitcase was laid on a rest at the foot of the invitingly soft-looking bed.

‘I hope this will be all right for you,’ said Derriman solicitously.

Ash eyed the old bureau of polished yew against one wall with a cushioned chair before it. A tallboy made from oak stood by the wall next to the open door, where the general manager waited with a self-satisfied smile on his long face. Ash’s own delight as he’d entered had obviously pleased Derriman too.

‘You do have a very small bathroom through there.’ Derriman pointed to the lesser door next to the splendid writing desk. ‘No bath, though; just a small sink and shower, I’m afraid.’

‘I’ll cope,’ Ash replied with a grin.

Then he looked around, puzzled.

‘Where’s the telephone?’ he queried.

‘None of the rooms have private telephones,’ the thin man told him apologetically. ‘In fact, you’ll find the only telephones are in the ground-floor offices. Of course, you’re welcome to use them at any time.’

Ash wondered why the hell the castle’s upper rooms had no means of phoning out.

‘Comraich is a very private estate, you see,’ the manager continued. ‘We find it best for our guests to be cut off from society in general. After all, it’s problems in the outside world that bring them to this sanctuary in the first place. Our therapy demands there’ll be no such contact.’

‘I’m no guest.’

‘N-no, of course not. But it’s a rule of the establishment – no unmonitored external communication for guests and visitors alike. It
was
in the contracts you signed with Simon Maseby,’ he added apologetically.

Ash regretted not having read the agreements fully. But Kate McCarrick would have done so, so it must have been okay with her. Maybe she’d objected at first, and Slimy Simon had talked her round. Ash wondered if Maseby had been fully aware of the Institute’s financial crisis before he’d contacted Kate. The thought rankled the investigator.

‘There’s no Wi-Fi, I take it?’ Ash asked, already knowing the answer.

‘No, I’m sorry, Mr Ash.’

‘D’you use carrier pigeon at all?’

That brought the ghost of a smile to Derriman’s lips. ‘It sounds odd, I know,’ he said, ‘but we do have some very important guests staying with us, and if their whereabouts became known, I fear Comraich would no longer be the peaceful haven that it is today. The press alone would be all over us.’

‘And the VIP guests, they can only phone out from your offices as well?’

‘Oh no, our clients are never allowed to use the telephones. That would be entirely against the Comraich rules.’ His nervousness had once again been overcome, although he was choosing his words carefully. ‘It’s also the reason the contract you signed was s-so, er, watertight. We demand the utmost duty of care and a guarantee of complete secrecy from all our employees, and, naturally, a binding agreement of silence from those we contract.’

‘What if I really
need
to get in touch with my boss at the Institute?’

‘Then, by all means, use the office telephone. You just have to play by our rules.’

Which meant that someone would be listening in, Ash supposed. He felt both angry and frustrated, but his expression remained neutral.

Derriman did his best to appease the investigator. ‘Of course, you can always write a letter.’

Yeah, right
, thought Ash, and anything detrimental to Comraich would be heavily censored or even destroyed.

‘I take it I’m allowed to leave whenever I choose?’ he muttered.

‘Yes, indeed!’ It sounded as if Ash had touched on a happier note. But then, as if he were the bearer of bad tidings, Derriman grew anxious again. ‘There’s something else: during your stay here, you mustn’t leave the grounds, not that you would have to; I think you’ll find everything you need is here.’

Christ
, Ash silently exclaimed,
it’s like being sentenced to a term in prison, without the normal niceties.

Derriman perked up, or at least forced himself to lift the mood again. ‘I’m sure that once you’ve been here a few days and enjoyed our hospitality, you’ll have a better understanding of our rules, draconian though they must seem to you at present.’

Ash failed to return his smile. ‘I’ll take your word for it. Uh, I need to freshen up and have some lunch.’

The general manager immediately made for the door, still smiling wanly as if only partially satisfied that he’d appeased Ash. As he was closing the door behind him, Ash remarked, ‘There doesn’t appear to be a key in the door.’

Derriman, halfway out, looked back at Ash with another embarrassed smile. ‘None of the rooms on this floor are ever locked, David. Where necessary, we maintain code-locks.’

Beyond surprise by this stage, Ash just waved a weary hand in response. Derriman left, closing the door quietly behind him.

The investigator stood watching the closed door, listening to the fading footsteps of Andrew Derriman as he trod down the threadbare carpet towards the lift. He remained there until the footsteps had gone completely, wondering just what Kate McCarrick had let him in for. What
he
had let himself in for. Eventually, he went to the window.

The sun had reclaimed its rightful place in the sky, and he scanned the scenery, relishing the glorious autumnal colours of the landscape. He could see the ruined arch across the broad courtyard where he’d sat in the Mercedes, in awe of the castle that had seemed to float eerily on the low mist.

He went to his old and battered suitcase on the luggage-rest at the end of the bed and, taking a small key from his trouser pocket, he unlocked it. The suitcase was filled mainly with the instruments of his trade: two cameras, wall thermometers, spectrometer and other devices that would help him in his nocturnal vigil later that night. Lifting some of the change of clothing piled on top of the equipment, he reached deep into the right-hand side of the suitcase and drew out a slim chrome-and-leather flask.

He undid the screw top which also served as a tiny cup for the green liquid inside.

Usually, he would have filled the cup half with water, half with the green stuff, but not today.

His hand trembling only slightly, he downed the absinthe in one greedy gulp.

Eddy Nelson ran from the cottage as fast as his strong stocky legs would carry him into the wild (and now, it seemed to him, hostile) forest. Twice he stumbled over hidden tree roots, and supple branches from overgrown foliage whipped his face, forcing him to raise an arm to protect his already watery eyes. His face flushed, his shirt stained and stuck to his body with sweat, he barged onwards, hopelessly straying from the given but indistinct path. His only ambition was, at that moment, to get as far away as possible from Twigg’s ‘chocolate-box’ abode.

What the fuck was wrong with the man?
he asked himself breathlessly. Those eyes that had been expecting him as he’d raised his face over the window ledge to peek in again, those
fucking cold malign eyes
, staring from that shadowed, evil-distorted face. Had Twigg been waiting for him this whole time, as though he knew when to expect Eddy? If a word like hate somehow had a physical embodiment, then that face was it.

The apprentice assassin sobbed as he hit a tree, earning a bruised shoulder as he fell to the ground.

Twigg had finally flipped, Eddy was sure of that. Even though the man –
his boss, his own fucking boss!
– had never seemed quite sane to him anyway, with his detached, joyless manner, barely speaking a few words to him even when briefing a new assignment, never smiling, never congratulating him on the success of a fresh mission, only ever giving him a quick nod of the pointy bald head as though a satisfactory completion was only to be expected. And even then, there was always some niggly little thing that hadn’t been carried out to Twigg’s satisfaction. Eddy had always known that the shabby, stiff-limbed murderer was not quite right in the head, but Haelstrom had continued to support the stunted git.