Ash (29 page)

As he pressed the call button and heard the elevator’s heavy clunking racket, he wondered how many of Comraich’s guests chose this means of transport to their rooms on the upper floors; not many, he reckoned, particularly those of nervous or claustrophobic disposition. Maybe many of the older residents were domiciled on the ground or first floors – the castle was certainly large enough to accommodate them. But then Delphine had told him there were two other elevators, one solely used by the medical unit, and presumably another roomier and brighter one for the guests and staff themselves.

While he waited, Ash took a moment to peek into the armoury close by: the ancient but well-kept and neatly arrayed weaponry was perfectly still. He stayed but a second or two, but none shook in any way and it came as a relief to him. He heard the
thunk
sound of the lift carriage arriving and walked swiftly to the heavy door, pulling it open with some effort.

Ash slid the safety door to one side, stepped in and stabbed at the button marked five. God, he needed a drink badly and, despite his resolution before the trip to Comraich, he certainly wouldn’t turn one down if Haelstrom was the type of host who always offered a ‘stiffener’, even during a business meeting.

The lift trundled upwards and the investigator was nervously aware of every bump and the sharp screech of the thick hoist cables running on aged drive shafts and guide rails. The overhead light illuminated the mahogany interior so poorly he could make out only a dim half-figure of his own reflection in the car’s age-mottled mirror. He felt uneasy, in a way stifled, despite the musty air coming through the safety door.

Above the safety door a gilded arrow moved past the floor numbers like the hand of a clock. Ash’s room was on the second floor, which the pointer was only just passing, but what he was more interested in were the lower numbers. The castle contained six floors above ground, then three more below. Nine in all then, counting the as yet unseen lower basement. Yet the floor indicator showed only two subterranean levels; a third had plainly been chiselled off as if no longer in use.

His eyes went to the buttons in their perpendicular line on the panel beside the lift door and he saw that the bottom one was similarly disabled: covered by a welded metal strip, as if abandoned.

In the olden days, that floor was no doubt where the dungeons or
oubliettes
were, and he could understand if the underground prison was the castle’s most neglected secret, but for a serious parapsychologist, it should have been a starting point for investigation, especially the area directly underneath Douglas Hoyle’s room. Ash
had
to get down there.

It suddenly struck him that this very lift shaft might act as a conduit for the dark energies coming from below. The centuries-old misery, the torture, the violence and the hopelessness there could have leaked to the upper floors to cause the paranormal disruption.
My God
, he thought,
instead of weakening through time, the evil might have strengthened and been drawn up by some noxious ungodliness above.

The small lift car juddered to an unsettling halt. Fifth floor. At last. Ash could hardly wait to step outside.

He yanked the iron safety door and for an awful moment, he felt it resist. But his hard tug succeeded and the door clattered open. Pushing – again, pushing
hard
– against the outer wooden door, he almost spilled into the hallway.

He took a deep breath and made an effort to stop his hands from shaking, then looked left, then right, in search of Haelstrom’s apartment.

Just then a figure dressed in a long-tailed butler’s coat came round a turning in the hallway to Ash’s right. The man could have sprung directly from the pages of a P. G. Wodehouse novel, so aptly was he attired. The hems of his sharply creased pinstripe trousers rested on the tops of shiny patent leather shoes and he wore a grey waistcoat and a gleaming white wing-tipped shirt, the cuffs of which showed exactly one quarter of an inch below his black coat sleeves. His tie was of deep grey and neatly tucked into the waistcoat. His face was long with a high-bridged nose that suited him perfectly, and his fine dark hair was slicked back neatly, shiny and flat over his pate, its parting narrow and professionally straight in a style that might have come from a pre-war cricketer in a newspaper advertisement for Brylcreem.

Like the crusty gatekeeper at the faux entrance to the Comraich estate, this character too could have been hired from Central Casting, although Ash was sure both men were genuine enough.

‘Could you direct me to Mr Hael— Sir Victor’s apartment?’ the investigator asked cordially, as the man approached.

‘Certainly sir,’ came the crisp response. ‘You’ll be Mr Ash, I take it?’

Ash nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘I act as manservant to Sir Victor and Lord Edgar,’ the brisk-mannered stranger said as he reached Ash. He looked to be in his early sixties, and his five-foot-seven frame had a dignified poise which showed no condescension whatsoever. The investigator enjoyed such unassumed refinement. The man had heavy bags under his alert grey eyes, as though responsibility sometimes weighed too heavily on him.

‘My name is Byrone,’ he told Ash respectfully.

Ash found it difficult to hide a smile. ‘Byrone?’ he repeated.

‘Yes, sir, and you’re not the first to find it amusing. However, there’s an “e” attached to the end of my name and, I’m afraid, the poet and I have too many differences to be compared.’

The butler’s smile revealed a wry sense of humour. ‘I believe you’re a mite late, sir.’ He lifted his forearm to consult his wristwatch. ‘I was instructed to serve Sir Victor and your good self drinks when you arrived. I’m afraid you’re already twenty-two minutes late for your appointment. If you’ll follow me, sir, I’ll get you to Sir Victor’s door in no time at all.’

David Ash strode to keep up with the unexpectedly amiable butler and at the third door down, Byrone gently knocked twice.

‘
Come in!
’ Ash heard the irascible voice of Haelstrom through the wood.

Byrone gave the investigator a little wink as he turned the handle and smartly opened the door. The butler entered first and announced the investigator’s name as he held the door open wider, his hand indicating the room beyond. Ash went through and saw Haelstrom sitting on the other side of a curved walnut desk.

‘You’re late!’ The considerably larger man’s cheeks were an unhealthy red as he glared across the room at the parapsychologist.

‘It’s a big castle,’ Ash answered mildly. ‘And I’m not even halfway through it yet.’

Haelstrom considered the reply for a moment, then grunted to himself. ‘Take a seat.’

It was neither a request, nor an invitation; it was a barked order. And, although Ash was no rebellious hot-flushed youth, it was not a way in which he liked to be addressed.

While he paused, the butler, sizing up the awkwardness of the situation, said politely, ‘Perhaps I can serve you drinks now, Sir Victor, while Mr Ash finds a comfortable place on the settee.’

The ‘settee’ in question was a long carved giltwood chaise longue for four with light green, striped silk upholstery and fluted, inverted baluster legs. The darker green cushions at either end set off the colour scheme admirably. As Ash crossed the apartment, he noted how tastefully opulent the whole room was. The windows, just behind Haelstrom’s desk, were almost floor to ceiling and drawn heavy damask curtains made an imposing backdrop to Comraich’s CEO.

To Haelstrom’s left stood a lavishly carved Dutch walnut bombe cabinet resting on massive wooden lions’ feet. Floral marquetry inlay decorated its drawers and doors.

A Queen Anne armchair covered in scrolled fabric sat somewhat discordantly before a huge plasma TV.

The high-ceilinged room was a veritable museum of fine pieces, and Ash, whose father had bequeathed him an appreciation of fine craftsmanship, looked round the room admiringly. He was rudely stirred from his musing when Haelstrom snapped, ‘I haven’t invited you here to appraise my furnishings. May we get on with the business at hand?’

Again, it was a direct order and again it was the tactful butler, Byrone, who saved the moment.

‘Your drinks, Sir Victor?’ Byrone reminded his master smoothly.

Surprisingly, the mention of drinks seemed to mollify Haelstrom, a sudden change of mood that Ash had already witnessed on his arrival that morning.

Haelstrom’s glare mellowed, and although his smile seemed to scrunch his features disturbingly towards the centre of his huge head, his manner became courteous. Byrone, Ash pondered, certainly knew how to handle his boss. Maybe Haelstrom had a problem with alcohol and the butler understood how to please him.

The investigator casually took his suggested seat.

‘I hear you like vodka, David . . .’ Haelstrom began.

David?
thought Ash. The big man’s demeanour really had changed. For the moment, at least.

‘I used to,’ Ash replied cautiously. Haelstrom had obviously been fully briefed by Simon Maseby.

‘Yes,’ Haelstrom continued. ‘Yes, well, now how do you feel about whisky?’

‘Scotch or Irish?’ he countered, though he had no particular preference.

Haelstrom smiled again, giving the investigator a crafty look. ‘Japanese,’ he replied.

Ash stared at him in surprise.

‘There are two Japanese whiskies which have been favoured even above our own. One is a twenty-year-old Yoichi, distilled on the shores of the Sea of Japan. I’m not a Scot, so I feel no betrayal in recommending it.’

Haelstrom stood and came round to the front of his desk, leaning his ample rear end against the edge while folding his arms as if to give a lecture.

‘Yoichi has a spectacular mix of smoke and sweet blackcurrant. An explosive aroma, it’s said.’

He turned his head towards Byrone, who stood at attention by a beautiful drinks cabinet, its ornate upper doors open wide. Ash could see a vast array of bottled spirits in the shadows inside.

‘But the one I want to recommend to you, David, is the world’s best blend. This Suntory Hibiki’s taste owes much to the variable climate where the distillers are located, which assists maturation and creates a purer whisky with a heightened aroma. The choice is yours but, as I said, I recommend you try the latter.’ He looked pleased – if such a strained face could look so – as he waited for the investigator to make his choice.

Ash felt awkward: as far as Haelstrom knew, the investigator was supposed to be on the wagon. But what the hell, they both sounded terrific.

‘Uh, I shouldn’t,’ he said, with an expression that endeavoured to be both faltering
and
doubtful at the same time.

His forced hesitation led Haelstrom to say, ‘Of course, I could arrange a small absinthe, if that’s your preference . . .’

Ash was startled, but thought quickly. ‘Isn’t absinthe supposed to be a little harsh on the system, let alone the brain?’

‘I’m sure
you
could tell
me
.’

How the bloody hell did the man know about the absinthe in Ash’s flask? Had his bedroom and luggage been searched in the investigator’s absence?’

‘The, uh, Suntory Hibiki sounds good. I suppose one wouldn’t hurt.’ He played out the game and if Haelstrom was wise to it, it didn’t show.

The big man nodded at the butler, who was already poised, with a crystal tumbler held in one hand. Byrone poured the exotic-sounding whisky, its top already opened as though he knew Ash would accept Sir Victor’s suggested preference. He poured another for his master.

The butler brought the drinks over on a small silver tray, serving Ash first. Haelstrom raised his glass and the para-psychologist returned the gesture.

‘Naturally, ice would be unacceptable,’ Haelstrom said before taking his first sip.

‘Naturally.’ Ash’s sip was considerably larger, and he found the other man’s description of the Japanese whisky’s qualities to be accurate. Both men allowed the subtle tastes to come through before Haelstrom said, ‘Did you know the Japanese have gone crazy for wine, especially red?’

Ash shook his head, then tried another sip, smaller this time as the mix blossomed. He felt a pleasant heat descending into his chest.

‘Yes, they heard that wine had great health benefits and now cannot import enough of the stuff. Wine exporters are reaping a fortune and their Japanese clients couldn’t care less how outrageously priced it is.’ Haelstrom held the glass up once more, this time to study the amber liquid, which the crystal motif multiplied into myriad pleasing images. Suddenly, he drained the glass and held it out to the butler, indicating a refill. ‘Well, David, what do you have to tell me? What have you discovered so far?’

Ash placed the palm of his hand over the top of the tumbler as Byrone made to collect it. It had taken Ash an effort to refuse a top-up, but it had been a long day and he had a long night ahead of him. He felt Haelstrom’s gaze.

Placing the glass on a small table next to the settee, Ash made a play of opening his shoulder bag that lay at his feet and taking out his notepad.

The big-boned man pulled over the Queen Anne chair and sat facing Ash. He was several feet away, but still Ash felt an almost overbearing discomfort which had more to do with the glint in the other man’s tiny recessed eyes than his proximity. He waited while Byrone served his master another crystal tumbler of Japanese whisky.

‘I’m waiting,’ Haelstrom said impatiently.

Good-bye Dr Jekyll, hello Mr Hyde
, Ash thought, but replied, ‘Sure,’ as he consulted his notes for rather longer than was necessary as his client’s patience wore increasingly thin. Finally, he snapped the notebook shut. ‘I’ve examined the lower floors up to the second, where my own quarters are,’ he began. ‘But I wasn’t allowed to examine the lower-basement area for reasons that are not clear to me. Mr Babbage and Mr Derriman were adamant.’

Haelstrom just stared at him, voicing no opinion.

‘Maybe we can come to that later,’ Ash said uneasily. ‘I’ve studied each landing and all the offices and public rooms. I’ve found cold spots, some of which might indicate some kind of psychic disturbance or presence.’