Ash (63 page)

Outside, he could see the castle battlements, though how an enemy could hope to scale this part of the cliff face with its almost vertical precipice was beyond him.

The large room’s simplicity was perhaps evidence of its occupant’s own clear and uncluttered mind. But as Ash looked around for his host he saw that there was no one other than himself and Byrone present.

Ash was standing near an uncluttered desk with a leather-inlaid top. There were a few documents neatly stacked on one side, a crystal paperweight and a silver letter opener, but what caught Ash’s attention was a sealed white envelope resting against the paperweight. In fine script it simply read:
The Inner Court.
It was placed so that anyone entering the room would notice it immediately.

Then a dry, low voice sounded through an open door on the far side of the room. ‘Please show our guest through, Byrone.’

The manservant led the way, this time entering before the investigator. ‘Mr David Ash, my lord,’ Byrone announced, stepping to one side to give Ash his first proper view of the grey man he’d seen on his arrival.

Lord Edgar was seated facing the door in a comfortable-looking high-backed armchair, just to the right of a warming log fire. The laird of Comraich was even thinner than Ash had remembered. Instead of the grey suit and tie he’d worn before, the thin man had a thick green and black tartan blanket pulled round his narrow shoulders like a shawl. Below that were grey check trousers, and on his feet, black loafers. Flames from the fire gave the right side of his face a rosy glow, but the flesh on the unlit side was pale and sickly-looking.

Yet, despite his evident frailty, Lord Edgar Shawcroft-Draker appeared in good humour. ‘Forgive me if I don’t rise to the occasion,’ he said with a fleeting smile, ‘but I hope a handshake will suffice.’

He held out a hand that trembled slightly as it reached out from the blanket, for a moment exposing a woollen jumper over a rotund stomach.

Ash stepped forward and took the proffered hand, which felt as dry as old parchment; he was conscious of the effort put into the other man’s grip, and the investigator held his hand firmly but without undue pressure. Lord Edgar let his long skinny fingers drop back under the blanket.

Lord Edgar indicated the twin of his armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace. As he seated himself, Ash noted that, although the fire was in full flame, the heat it threw out was far less than might be expected.

Noticing the parapsychologist’s puzzlement, the old man leaned forward confidentially. ‘I’m afraid draughty old castles keep in precious little heat, even in the summer months. We do our best to keep the guests comfortable and warm, but up here at the building’s summit, as it were, and on the top of a promontory over the Irish Sea, it’s almost impossible to conserve warmth.’ He relaxed back into his armchair.

It’s going to get a lot colder before the night’s out, even for the guests below
, thought Ash.

The elderly laird was speaking again and the investigator was relieved the reedy voice was loud enough to hear without a struggle.

‘In high summer, it’s very pleasant to take a stroll along the battlements and to breathe in good, life-giving, unpolluted sea air.’ With his head, he indicated a pair of French doors. ‘I have easy access, you see. The doors lead directly onto the battlements. Usually, in autumn or winter, we draw the curtains closed to help keep out the draughts, but on a night like this, I love to watch the rising moon against the velvet blackness of the universe behind it, with a whole galaxy of twinkling stars. Unfortunately, it’s something you rarely see these days in most of Britain because of light pollution.’

The old man fell silent, but before Ash could speak, he seemed to rally once more.

‘Now, Mr Ash, may we refresh you with a drink? I’m sorry that we don’t have absinthe, but I’m sure Byrone can find you something – er, if I may say so – something better for your health.’

Christ, does everyone know?
thought Ash. He wasn’t really surprised, but why should his liking for absinthe be significant?

Byrone, who had been standing discreetly nearby, came forward. ‘What would you like, Mr Ash? A nice single malt would keep the chill off your bones, if that will suit.’

Scotland? Whisky? What could be better if absinthe was off the card? ‘Single malt, please. I’ll leave the distillery to you.’ He wondered if they knew his absinthe had run dry. Perhaps there would be a fresh supply waiting when he returned to his room.

‘Very good, sir. And your lordship. Shall I prepare your special now?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Shawcroft-Draker said slowly, as if he were thinking on it. He suddenly gave a half-smile. ‘Bring my other preference for the moment, Byrone. I’m rather interested to hear what our parapsychologist friend has to say.’

‘Very well, my lord. I’ll return directly.’ With that, the butler disappeared into the larger room.

‘So tell me, Mr Ash,’ Lord Edgar began when they were alone. ‘Have you discovered anything of special significance in the history of Comraich Castle so far? Do you know of its violent past, of the curse that was laid on it? That certainly must be of interest to you, especially with regard to the aberrant, even surreal incidents that have occurred here recently, no?’

‘You’re referring to when the family of one of the ancient lairds was thrown from the battlements down to the rocks below, I take it? I’ve heard some of it.’

‘With the gorier bits left out, no doubt.’

‘What I was told seemed pretty ghoulish to me. Whether or not that has something to do with the haunting at present, I couldn’t tell you. But without doubt, there’s evil shadowing this place.’

They were suddenly interrupted by the soft
whumph
,
whumph
,
whumph
of a helicopter slowly descending outside, a sharp beam of bright light preceding it to the landing pad. The noise soon abated after the machine touched down.

‘Ah, the arrival of the last of the Inner Court members.’ He allowed a small sigh. ‘A long journey, I must admit. I hope our members aren’t overtired for tonight’s conference, but it was the only way to get almost everybody in one place, in view of their business commitments.’

Byrone returned with a silver tray bearing two fine crystal tumblers. He served the host first, Shawcroft-Draker’s shaky hand reaching out from beneath the folds of the tartan blanket for the glass of murky-looking liquid. The butler then brought the tray over to the investigator as Lord Edgar raised his glass in salutation.

‘You know,’ he began, ‘clinking glasses used to be one of my small pleasures – it makes a special contact with another person, a toast to each other’s health, you might say – but alas, nowadays I’m usually too weary to make the effort.’

Ash stood and closed the gap between them.

‘All the best, your lordship,’ Ash said genuinely as his tumbler met Lord Edgar’s, and there was indeed something pleasant about the sound the two glasses made. The laird smiled in appreciation.

As the investigator returned to his seat, he noticed that the butler had retreated to the shadowy side of the room. Ash also noticed that on top of a magnificent credenza lay the tray that Byrone had carried in the passageway when he’d first encountered him. The distinctively patterned cloth covering the silver tray was now rumpled, exposing what looked like a syringe.

Suddenly there was a dull thud and the windows vibrated.

‘What was that?’ Ash commented.

‘Sometimes the sea makes the most extraordinary noises . . . anyway where were we?’ Shawcroft-Draker murmured almost to himself. A telling moment, a geriatric delighted he hadn’t quite lost his memory. ‘Ah yes,’ he went on, his voice not as querulous as before he’d sipped his oddly murky drink. ‘The curse! The Mullachd, to use the old Scottish word for it.’

‘Yes, the driver who brought me here from the airport mentioned how the Laird McKinnon’s wife and daughters were thrown from the battlements, and he laid the curse as he jumped after them.’

‘Unfortunately, it was far worse than that. If he’d not allied himself twice with the English he might have lived on to a hearty old age.’

Lord Edgar fell silent, was lost in contemplation once more, reflected fire dancing in his eyes beneath drooping lids.

Ash was forced to stir him. ‘It was an English king who declared an end to the hostilities, wasn’t it?’

‘Revenge was sought, my friend. The poor Scots had been defeated twice by the English king, Edward II, but when Edward III came to the throne, he was weary of pointless battles and allowed Scotland its independence. Laird McKinnon was no longer in favour with the new king – in truth, Edward could not care less about him – and that was when the clans took their revenge.’

The old man slowly and sadly shook his head back and forth, as if he were seeing the atrocity acted out before him.

‘The usurper laird, who had fought alongside the other clans, laid claim to the castle for himself in the end. He was a wicked, evil fellow who gave a damn for no one, not even God. He had the defeated Laird McKinnon and his family hauled up from the dungeons to this very part of the castle. The fire in the hearth was well lit and a long knife inserted into the burning logs, so that its tip was made red-hot.’

Had the room grown darker with more shadows, or was it Ash’s own keyed-up mind imagining?

‘There were two daughters, one aged thirteen, called Finella, the other sixteen, with the sweet name of Leanne, though the family history tells us she was the feistier of the pair. Anyway, out on the battlements, beyond this very room, McKinnon was forced to watch both his daughters, young as they were, tortured, abused, and finally raped by the malicious new laird’s untamed warriors. This arrogator was appropriately named Laird Deahan, which he relished, because translated into English it means Demon.

‘Can you imagine that Mr Ash? To be forced to watch both his young unblemished daughters tortured and abused with a red-hot knife, raped in front of him, innocent children, whom he loved above all else – the barbaric acts against them, their struggle despite fear and incomprehension, being ravished by the roughest of clansmen. And then to see them thrown off the battlements to the rocks and sea far below.’

Ash wasn’t enjoying this, as Lord Edgar might have realized, for his heavy-lidded eyes constantly sought out the investigator’s, as if to measure his sensibility. But Ash kept his face a still mask, without a hint of any emotion, which perhaps encouraged the head of Comraich Castle, for the chronicle became even more gruesome.

‘By the accounts we have of that diabolic day, Laird Duncan McKinnon fought like a wild man. It’s told he was a man of massive strength. We cannot know how many of his foe it took to immobilize him, but eventually his strength was gone and he succumbed.’

The gaunt man’s voice remained firm, though to Ash he appeared more withered by the minute. Despite his stated abhorrence, he seemed to be enjoying the hideousness of his account.

‘McKinnon was pulled to the flagstones, compelled to kneel and witness a further appalling violation against his family, for now it was the turn of his poor hysterical wife, Elspeth, wailing for their lost daughters. She too was stripped, though to be humiliated rather than abused. She was made to kneel only feet from her tightly held husband. Her hair was pulled back to expose her neck to an axe-wielding barbarian.

‘God only knows what was running through the broken laird’s mind at that point.’

Ash sniffed at his whisky before putting the glass to his lips, pretending to appreciate the aroma of the liquor while trying to detect any hint of poison. Both Lord Edgar and Byrone were watching him pointedly and Ash had no choice but to hope for the best. He took a sip, allowing it to roll around his mouth, then swallowed. Liquid fire ran down his throat to rest for a while, seeming to expand in his chest. It was exquisite.

But so too, were some poisons when mixed with other, stronger flavours.
What the hell
, he thought, and took another large gulp. Oddly, it made his senses keener.

‘I see you enjoy our special Scottish brew, Mr Ash,’ said Lord Edgar, genuine pleasure in his smile. ‘And you should. It’s a sixty-year-old Macallan single malt; you’re also supping it from a Waterford crystal tumbler which is the finest of receptacles from which to taste it.’

‘Two – the Macallan and the glass – of the very best,’ Ash readily agreed, pleasing his host.

‘Where were we?’

Lord Edgar grunted with satisfaction and continued his story. ‘Just as Elspeth was about to be decapitated, the fearsome tormentor, Laird Laghlan Deahan, became dissatisfied. Perhaps McKinnon had not yet shown enough grief; certainly he had not begged for the life of his wife nor even his daughters. There were no pleas for mercy, not even from Elspeth, who merely wept in despair. McKinnon himself refused to show weakness.

‘So Deahan decided something more drastic was required to cause his sworn enemy to submit, perhaps even to swear worthless allegiance. He ordered the naked Elspeth to be laid on her back against the hard stone, her arms and legs spread-eagled. As she lay flat, exposed and shivering, the castle’s conqueror ordered that her four limbs should be severed from her body, one at a time so she could anticipate the pain that was to come. You would think she would be dead, or, at least, in a faint, before the last limb was severed, wouldn’t you? But no, the record tells of her screams for her daughters and her husband, for God to take her quickly, to end her suffering. And Duncan McKinnon could only watch until eventually all that was left on Elspeth’s torso was her head; then it, too, was finally removed from her body. Before his wife’s dismembered corpse followed his daughters over the battlements, that head, with its long grey tresses, was brandished in front of him, the eyes still half-open so he could see right into them. Were they accusatory, blaming him for all they’d lost because he’d chosen to fight three wars with the English against the Scots, his own people? Would the brain inside that severed head have still lived on a few seconds more without its body? There are some physicians who claim it could, but who’s to know? Would that have left an energy behind for us to experience today? You’re a parapsychologist, Mr Ash: What do you say?’