Ash (24 page)

He would simply vanish.

But contracting Parkinson’s disease had disrupted those plans for good.

To make matters worse, it was taking hold more rapidly than the Wimpole Street specialists’ prognosis. Twigg could only hope that nobody at Comraich – especially the medics – had yet noticed his deterioration. But when they did – and it would be soon – he knew exactly what action the Inner Court would take. Before they could do that, however, he was going to take some action of his own.

It was just as well he was a loner (as all assassins should be), living in isolation, interacting with other people as little as possible, the debriefings to his masters short to the point of curtness. He’d never tried to be popular.

How he despised these rich, pampered clients who resided at Comraich, all guilty of things most ordinary people would have been condemned or punished for. Just because they had untold wealth, or their benefactors were rich beyond compare, these guilty people lived in quiet luxury instead of ending their days in the harsh surroundings of prison or, at the least, as pariahs. But mostly, he hated his own masters, those who sent him to assassinate men and women they feared or distrusted, outsiders who could damage or inform on the Inner Court, which was the most powerful, most sinister, and most influential secret organization in the kingdom.

Eventually – no,
soon
– he would strike out at this nefarious and influential cabal, as well as their hirelings such as Sir Victor Haelstrom, who would never deign to share a normal conversation with him, let alone eat a meal together. Haelstrom gave Twigg his orders, his missions, and only the man’s own arrogance prevented him from being afraid of the professional killer.

And then there were the underlings, young fledglings, abhorrences all, sent to Twigg so that he could teach them the dark art and practicalities of assassination. Men like Eddy Nelson.

Nelson . . .

Twigg, his heavy breathing beginning to subside, stared down at the torn, mutilated figure of his most recent, despicable trainee. Once, Eddy Nelson had been about five foot ten tall; now his body had been shredded and tugged until – if he could have done the impossible by standing on his own two feet – he would have been at least six foot six, his body had been pulled apart and stretched so vigorously. It was as if the wildcats had played tug of war with the carcass. (Or had it been a carcass? Maybe Nelson had still been alive when it happened.)

The young man’s belly had split in two, exposing the slithery innards that steamed in the open air, chunks of good soft meat pulled free to be eaten at leisure. The intestines popped and wriggled as if still alive, though their host was clearly dead and strings of arterial veins that had led to the missing heart still seeped deep-red blood as if the kill had only just occurred.

Cats like to play with their victims, Twigg recalled, and it seemed it was no different with these wildcats, who made up for size in numbers. They had mauled poor old Nelson (even Twigg had the smallest spark of humanity) and the assassin shuddered at the sight of his half-eaten and drawn apprentice. The odd thing was – odd because it drew attention away from the naked and disturbingly twitching guts – that Nelson’s whole lower jaw was missing.

His upper set of teeth grinned up bloodily at Twigg, but below was just bright gory meat down to the exposed throat. Above that monstrous invasion, Nelson’s eyes were still open. Open wide and staring. Except one eyeball looked up as if to see what was inside its own head, while the other one peered downwards as if it couldn’t believe the lower jaw had gone.

Cedric Twigg did his best to stand upright against the constraints of his debility, and he looked left and then right, strangely unafraid of the wildcats.

He felt an affinity with them, because they, like him, were assassins too.

Back in his room on the second floor and after closing the door firmly behind him, Ash headed straight for his big suitcase on the carrier at the foot of the bed. He’d returned to his quarters not to collect any of the equipment of his profession, but to dig down into one corner and remove the chrome-and-leather flask secreted there.

Then he turned to the little round table on which a thoughtful maid had placed a jug of fresh water and two small tumblers. First, he poured two finger-widths of absinthe into one tumbler, then an equal amount of water. (Not for Ash the ritualistic pouring of the liquor over a spoonful of melted sugar; an unnecessary affectation, he always told himself.)

He watched the liquid turn a cloudy green, then picked up the glass and swallowed half its contents. The liqueur was sufficiently diluted not to scour his throat, but nevertheless strong enough to have an effect. He felt the warmth bloom in his chest and already the shocking news of Douglas Hoyle’s death was becoming acceptable. It wasn’t the death itself that had so jolted Ash, it was the timing: the financier had died at the exact moment the Gulfstream’s engines had malfunctioned.

Was there – could there be – a connection? Ash sipped the rest of the absinthe and water, walking over to the small window again. Looking down he saw people –
ordinary
people who looked neither mad nor unwell – strolling through the gardens, wandering around the immense courtyard, some perhaps making for the castle walkway for a view of the ruffled sea. They moved in groups of three or four while some were solitary figures, lost in their own thoughts. They were too far away to distinguish features, but even so, some of them felt familiar to him.

Ash was about to reach into his luggage once more, this time for binoculars, when he realized time was marching on and Derriman was waiting downstairs for him, no doubt becoming a little impatient. Replacing the tumbler on the small table, Ash removed his jacket and donned what he referred to as his ‘field jacket’, which was olive green and had many deep and useful pockets as well as a collar he could use to shield his neck against chilly draughts. Mindful that he would first be checking out the lower regions of the castle, he also pulled a dark biker’s muffler over his head so that it crinkled around his throat. It could also be pulled up over his mouth and nose if necessary. He then picked up his leather shoulder bag, the contents of which included two cameras, one a tiny digital model, the other a bigger Polaroid type. The latter he hung round his neck by its strap, the former he placed into one of the deeper pockets of his field jacket.
Time to go to work
, he told himself.
Time to earn a living. Time to engage whatever paranormal evil dwells in this huge ancient pile.

When he met Derriman, whose face had mercifully regained some of its natural colour, outside his office on the ground floor, the general manager was wearing a buttoned-up jumper under his coat and a short, bright tartan scarf around his neck. The lower we go, he’d explained to Ash, the colder it gets. The investigator pointed at his own apparel to indicate he’d had the same thought. Somehow, it broke the ice between them.

‘Will you call in a coroner to ascertain how Douglas Hoyle died?’ Ash said as they prepared to begin their exploration.

‘You’re f-forgetting one thing,’ Derriman stuttered. ‘Mr Hoyle died over a year ago as far as the public and the authorities are aware. He no longer officially existed, and now I’m afraid he t-truly doesn’t, so why would we call in a coroner?’

Ash appreciated the logic, but it didn’t make things right. He decided it was pointless to pursue the matter.

‘W-when death occurs, of course close relatives are in-informed, but our contract with them allows us to dispose of the body as we see fit.’

‘Don’t people ask to see the body, or at least attend the funeral?’

‘That’s at our d-discretion, and they’re well aware of this when they sign the contract. To tell you the truth, Mr Ash, some are relieved that they no longer have to bear the fees.’

The stutter disappeared as Derriman became more sanguine.

‘Okay,’ said Ash resignedly. ‘And, please, it’s David,’ he told the general manager again.

‘Yes, of course. With so many distinguished guests, we tend to keep up the formality. Think that’s what’s expected of us.’

Not quite ‘distinguished’ if they’d had to go into hiding
, Ash thought to himself, but naturally, he let it drop.

‘What about an autopsy?’

‘We have our own pathology department and I believe the corpse is under examination as we speak. We expect a written report either tomorrow or the day after.’

Derriman pointed to a closed door further down the hall. ‘We’ll collect Babbage first, then we can make a start.’

Together they walked down the marble floor of the long, pillared hall and Ash noticed the guard who sat by the broad curving stairway stiffened and gave Derriman a half-salute as they passed.
Someone doesn’t want to lose his job
, thought Ash.

Striding forcefully towards them came a tall, slightly portly, grey-haired man dressed wholly in black, except for the clerical collar at his throat. Following behind, and hurrying to keep up, was a tiny woman wearing a nun’s black habit and white bib, which cast a waxy light over her already pale, plump-cheeked face. The loose black gown was so long it flowed behind her and almost covered her shoes. Her head was covered by a wimple and around her waist was a woven woollen belt with a beaded rosary linked to it. A silver cross hung from a cord around her neck. She had a smooth, unblemished, pretty face, which at that moment was anxious, her eyes on the back of the cleric she strove to keep up with.

The man in black came to a sudden halt two paces in front of Ash, the earnest nun almost stumbling into him.

‘A newcomer, I see,’ the man boomed. ‘Have you sinned, my son?’ Ash held his stance, despite the temptation to step back and recover his own space. Ash thought the sudden confrontation amusing, especially the ‘my son’, which he thought was an endearment no longer used by the modern clergy.

Derriman quickly stepped in to avoid further embarrassment for them all. ‘L-let me i-introduce you,’ he said, and Ash realized the general manager’s stutter had returned again, due to unease. ‘This is the Reverend Archbishop Carsely,’ Derriman told Ash. ‘And his, uh, acolyte, I suppose you’d say, is Sister Thimble. She acts as the archbishop’s PA and devotee.’

The nun smiled at Ash around the archbishop’s left elbow, while the clergyman drew his head back almost as if deliberately to look down his nose at this newly arrived interloper. ‘Well, my boy, have you?’

‘Have I what?’

‘Sinned. Didn’t you hear me the first time?’

For a man of the cloth, Ash considered, this guy was pretty pompous as well as brusque.

‘I guess I have,’ he admitted, playing along.

‘Would you like me to hear your confession?’

It didn’t sound like an invitation.

Derriman stepped in again. ‘Mr Ash is a psychic investigator, here to help us with a small problem, Your Grace. He isn’t a guest.’

Archbishop Carsely looked imperiously at the diplomatic general manager. ‘To rid us of these evil spirits?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve already informed you that I’m able to perform an exorcism.’

‘You feel dark forces have manifested themselves in this place?’ Ash asked. It was a pointed question and he hoped for an apt reply.

‘The whole
world
is governed by malign forces, Mr Ash. Why should this castle be any different? Nevertheless, I have offered my services to Sir Victor, but he insists that I remain silent about the recent spiritual disruption within these walls. He’s afraid of alarming the other residents. But hear me now; these loathsome unseen entities are growing in number. It’s as if a dark oppressive legion has been drawn here to seek allegiance with the evil that dwells in Comraich.’

Like these dangerous Highland wildcats have been drawn here?
Ash silently mused, suddenly reminded of his drive through the grounds.

‘Wickedness abounds at Comraich,’ the archbishop went on, ‘and there must be a reason. Whatever it may be, you can be sure it will soon reveal itself. And only the Devil will rejoice in the revelation.’

Without warning, the cleric reached out and laid his hand on top of Ash’s head, firmly pushing it down so that the parapsychologist was left looking at the marble floor. Archbishop Carsely then mumbled an unintelligible stream of words that Ash supposed were Latin.

Too startled to pull away, even though he felt awkward and embarrassed, as if he were abasing himself before this eccentric man of God, Ash remained still, waiting for the clergyman to finish. Fortunately, that wasn’t long.

The archbishop removed his hand, gave his imagined supplicant a swift blessing with two straightened fingers and then, with a short bow of his head, went on his way.

The nun’s eyes met Ash’s with a note of anxiety before she scurried after her ecclesiastical master, leaving the investigator looking after them in wonder and metaphorically scratching his head.

He turned to Derriman. ‘What the hell was that about?’

Guests around them went back to their conversations as if nothing untoward had happened.

‘I’m s-s-so sorry.’ His face had flushed red again. ‘Perhaps someone should have told you before.’

‘About the archbishop?’

‘Yes, and other people you might meet here.’

‘I’m intrigued.’

‘Don’t be. You signed a binding contract.’

‘I signed two, actually. It doesn’t mean I can’t be interested though.’

Derriman accepted his point with a sigh. ‘I suppose not.’

‘Naturally, I’ll use discretion, but right now I have to be fed
some
information. I promise my lips are sealed.’

‘I can only implore you for restraint. Do we have an agreement that whatever you learn never escapes these walls?’

‘As I said, I’ve signed two contracts to that effect and I’m not about to break either one. It would be too costly.’

Ash didn’t like Derriman’s sudden silent stare. The general manager seemed to ponder an inner conflict.

‘You need to ask Sir Victor?’ Ash asked helpfully.

A second or two, then Derriman gave a slow shake of his head. ‘No, I’ll put my trust in you, David. All I ask is that you keep me fully informed of your activities in the castle, and that you’ll seek me out for any answers you might require.’