Ash (31 page)

Now, after the drink he needed a cigarette; he really had given them up that morning. He was aware they were doing him no good, apart from settling his nerves sometimes, but today, determined to beat them, he’d deliberately binned what was left in the pack – three – before leaving for the airport, the cab already waiting for him outside.

In a way, he knew Kate had sent him on this assignment – an assignment that meant so much to the Institute, both in financial terms and with regard to its reputation – because she trusted him. She was relying on him completely. His breakdown was in the past, and he had to prove that, not only to her but to himself also.

Staring through the window, lost in his own thoughts, a movement suddenly caught his attention.

Two figures were walking across the silver-grey courtyard towards the castle gardens.

He squinted to see them more clearly, but the distance was too great. Curious, he snatched up the small telescope that lay among other paraphernalia he’d left in the suitcase and put it to his right eye. He was almost too late – the figures had reached the steps leading down into the gardens, where they would become hidden behind walls and raised flower beds, but he managed to focus the lens just in time.

Through the eyeglass, he immediately recognized Delphine, but the figure she accompanied, someone who held on to her as if finding difficulty in walking, was a mystery. A mystery made even more so, because this person wore a cowled garment, much like a monk’s robe, the head well hidden beneath the pointed hood. Soon, both figures were out of view.

He checked the MX10 wristwatch: 8.16 p.m. The sedated diners on the first floor would probably be halfway through dinner by now, and most would shortly take to their beds: he reasoned early nights were likely to be encouraged at Comraich Castle, although maybe some would gather in the drawing rooms for discussions or a few hands of contract bridge, canasta or backgammon. Maybe the billiard room he’d been shown earlier might be in use, although the tranquillizers supplied so liberally by Dr Pritchard would no doubt soon have the guests heading for their rooms.

Moving the still-wrapped sandwich and Delphine’s note aside, he spread out the 1950s plan given to him by Haelstrom as well as the second, older parchment, which contained a rough drawing of the castle’s cross-sections. Sketchy and old though the latter was, it managed to give him a better idea of the ancient building’s layout: storerooms, libraries, the chapel tower, the kitchens, the grand state hall (which was now the high-ceilinged dining room), the King’s rooms (those now occupied by Sir Victor Haelstrom), the prison tower – that came as a surprise to him, for he’d assumed all the cells were contained in the lowest floors – the bailiff’s room and even the toilets, cesspits and chimneys. He sought out the dungeons, but found to his frustration that the relevant portion of the drawing was missing. He wondered if Haelstrom had deliberately cut off the lower section before handing it over to him. The cut looked fresh.

Even the more detailed architectural drawings were vague, leaving the subterranean area mainly blank. One particular detail that interested Ash was an indication of a large door, with nothing to show where it led or what it protected. Well, tomorrow, if Delphine had managed to fix it with an estate ranger, he would be able to investigate the caves beneath the castle. He felt sure the epicentre for the apparent paranormal activity was somewhere below the building. He still couldn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to inspect the lowest level. There might be lunatics down there, some of them dangerous, but presumably they were locked away in comfortable and well-guarded cells. What harm could he come to if that were the case? Haelstrom must be hiding something.

As Ash was poring over the plans the lights flickered and dimmed.

Almost immediately, they regained power and brightened. And brightened even more until they were practically incandescent and he had to raise a hand over his eyes to cut out the glare. Within moments, the lamp and ceiling light returned to normal, but the experience left him feeling uneasy.

He continued to study the plans before him. After a short while, he began to feel hungry. It had been a hell of a long day so far, and lunch had been hours ago. Absent-mindedly, he reached for the silver-foil wrapping containing the snack that Delphine had so sweetly had made up for him from the castle kitchens. The smell of chicken whetted his appetite even more. Picking up the pack, he began to unwrap it while still concentrating on the plans spread over the bed. And even though his attention was diverted, something alerted his subconscious, made him glance at the package in his hand. It didn’t feel right; it felt as if something was moving beneath the silver foil.

He straightened up and began to unravel the soft wrapping.

‘
Jes—!
’ he cried out as he dropped the pack and jumped back in horror, slamming his shoulder blades against the wall behind him so hard that he fell to the floor.

The dining hall was almost full this evening and much of the soft-spoken conversation was about the new man who had arrived in their very own domain. There was an air of mystery about him. He’d come to Comraich to find ghosts, for most of them realized the castle really was haunted.

Their conversations, which might have been expected to be excitable, were subdued. Yet there remained an unease in the atmosphere that only the strongest of sedatives could cloak.

At the centre of the vast circular hall was the principal table, all other dining tables spread concentrically around it like a spider’s web. And if that analogy suited, then Sir Victor Haelstrom, who, with others, occupied that middle point, could be likened to a blood-bloated spider sensitive to every vibration of the web’s invisible membrane.

Dinner at Comraich was always served from 8 p.m. to 9 p.m. (the guests needed routine), with cocktails served, often with medication, at 7.30 p.m. in the long foyer at ground level. It was required that most guests be settled in their own bedchambers by 10 p.m., 10.30 at the latest, and sleeping peacefully by 11 p.m. Yet despite the various calming drugs administered to each guest throughout the day, there were always one or two who were night owls regardless. They could always relax and perhaps socialize in one of the drawing rooms overlooking the sea, or either of the well-stocked libraries. A good cigar accompanied by a brandy or two, usually with a mild narcotic in the brew, the taste disguised by the alcohol itself, or hot milk or cocoa spiked with a mild soporific could also be served. No matter what, the leisure hour always ended promptly at 11 p.m., when some late-nighters had to be helped to their beds.

However, for the past several nights running,
all
guests had been inclined to retire to their rooms as soon as dinner was over. None had the desire to walk the castle halls and corridors at night, and even the drawing rooms and libraries remained empty.

Haelstrom, still inches taller than his dining companions even when seated, looked at the empty chair opposite him at the table. He craned his odd-shaped head round, searching the restaurant.

‘I don’t see Dr Wyatt this evening,’ he complained in his usual gruff manner, now looking directly at Senior Nurse Rachael Krantz, whose face reddened with anger as her hazel eyes flashed at the big man.

It was Andrew Derriman, seated on Haelstrom’s left, who ventured an answer. ‘I-I think she’s out-outside, walking with . . .’ he paused, then finished, ‘with The Boy. Y-you know how he likes to be in-in the open air whenever he c-can. Dinner time is usually g-good for him. No sun, few, if any, people about except for a guard or two, and they ig-ignore him. It’s one of his limited pleasures.’

‘Not with this foolish ghost hunter, David Ash, then?’ Again, he looked at Krantz, as if goading her. This time she merely looked away, but Haelstrom gleefully felt her tension.

It was Dr Pritchard who took the trouble to come to Ash’s defence. Stroking his neatly trimmed goatee, he said, ‘Stuffed prig though Simon Maseby might be, he certainly did his homework on your so-called “ghost hunter”, whom, as a matter of fact, I checked out for myself through a contact at Edinburgh University that has its own unique Parapsychology Unit. Ash, would you believe, is a highly regarded member of the Parapsychologist Association, the international body for professional paranormal researchers. Full members must possess a PhD and have had a paper published in a respected scientific journal.’

‘Am I supposed to be impressed?’ Haelstrom retorted.

‘Well, I am. You see, what parapsychologists attempt to do is apply scientific methodology to explain paranormal or supernatural occurrences. I think if anyone can do precisely that in these circumstances, it’s David Ash. He’s a man of substance and, I believe, academia. I think, Sir Victor, your mistake was bringing in this Scottish spiritualist – Mrs Glennon? – because you misunderstood the gravity of the situation. Too much time was wasted.’

Haelstrom didn’t like his own judgement being questioned, no matter by whom. ‘How am I expected to know about this kind of mumbo-jumbo?’ he replied peevishly.

‘You aren’t, that’s why you need advising.’ Dr Pritchard became a little testy himself. ‘Now David Ash has hardly any time at all to solve our problem before tomorrow evening.’

Everyone at the table was silent, including Haelstrom himself. Important members of the Inner Court were due to arrive from London for a central policy statement to be agreed. Everything at Comraich had to be sorted by then.

Kevin Babbage proffered his opinion. ‘Even if the castle is haunted, ghosts – if you believe they’re the souls of the bloody dead – can’t hurt anyone. They’re in the imagination, that’s all. And thoughts can’t hurt you. We can handle them easily enough.’

Dr Pritchard gave him a withering smile. ‘Try telling that to Douglas Hoyle.’

‘I thought Ash was only hired for a preliminary investigation,’ said Rachael Krantz, her face still flushed from Sir Victor’s sly jibe earlier.

‘Then Ash will just have to contain any disturbances by his natural ability alone, certainly if he’s as good as you suggest, Dr Pritchard.’

The senior surgeon almost groaned. Haelstrom just didn’t get it, did he? Despite all that had happened so recently –
and
for several centuries past if one were to go back into the records of the old castle, as he had. Sir Victor remained apparently calm.

It seemed Haelstrom had decided to assert his authority again because of Dr Pritchard’s rather louche observations; the big man with the frighteningly long-shaped head and odd facial features was used to absolute obeisance from his staff, no matter what qualification or honours they held. Ignoring the doctor, Haelstrom chose to turn his full attention on the psychiatrist, Dr Sunil Singh.

‘It’s been brought to my notice that Dr Wyatt is spending rather a lot of time with Ash. He shouldn’t be distracted from his investigations.’

Various eyes around the table swung Rachael Krantz’s way, perhaps expecting a few sharp words from her. They didn’t get the sharp words, but the sharp looks from her were undoubtedly scarier. It was as if she were offering a challenge to her colleagues to speak. None rose to meet it.

Haelstrom’s glare was still boring into Dr Singh, a good-looking, light-skinned Sikh with a day’s growth of stubble on his chin. He and Delphine were used to sharing their patients and collaborating on individual cases.

‘Tell me your assessment of Dr Wyatt these days,’ he demanded bluntly of the psychiatrist.

Dr Singh gave a nervous grin. ‘We get along very well despite, or maybe because of, our different disciplines, though they often overlap. Sometimes we disagree on the merits of Freud and his now fashionably discredited premise that sex is the root cause of all behaviour. Delphine often tends to favour Jung.’

‘Is this significant?’ Haelstrom replied impatiently.

Dr Pritchard answered for Singh. ‘Nothing that’s relevant to our discussions this evening,’ he said smoothly.

Dr Singh’s manicured hands were folded across his lap beneath the white Irish linen tablecloth. ‘Delphine is also a great advocate of gestalt psychology and therapy using emotional as well as interpersonal meanings; she needs to examine the whole person and not just the particular signs and symptoms.’

‘And that’s a good thing?’ None of it made much sense to Haelstrom. It was sometimes a ploy of his, deliberately allowing certain others to underestimate his cleverness. But in this case, he was genuinely uninterested in the psychological complexities of the human mind, whether framed in existentialism or Freudian psychoanalytic theory of the human id, ego, or superego. None of it changed the price of butter.

Haelstrom scowled as he sat back from the table so that a waitress could set his dinner before him. His grunt might have been interpreted as a thank you to the girl or appreciation of the fillet of beef he was about to consume.

The other diners around the table were all hoping the superbly prepared food would mellow Haelstrom’s impatient and grouchy mood. Some evenings he could be delightfully entertaining or enthusiastically interested in the events of the day, while at other times he appeared to be a different man entirely, sharply disparaging, irritated by the slightest remark, hyper-critical of the behaviour or mistakes of others. Tonight was one of those times, and they all sensed it.

‘Tell me, then,’ the big man said to Dr Singh, ‘how is Dr Wyatt progressing with The Boy?’

Everyone at the table turned their attention towards the psychiatrist, interested themselves in Dr Singh’s answer.

His response was honest and unafraid. ‘I think we all know there will never be any cogent advancement of his mind or physical condition. Delphine does her best, and I think he has formed a very strong attachment to her, but I’m sure Dr Pritchard would agree there can only be one eventual outcome. For which we can only wait. It could take years; it might be tomorrow.’

Dr Pritchard, deftly cutting the plump white meat of his sea bass from the bone, nodded in silent agreement.

‘Dr Wyatt is an asset to Comraich, Sir Victor,’ Dr Singh assured him. ‘She has great sympathy
and
empathy for her patients. I, for one, should hate to lose her.’