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.’
‘What do you mean by “presence”? Ghosts?’ Haelstrom’s tone was distinctly belligerent, almost as if Ash had suggested an infestation of cockroaches.
‘Not necessarily ghosts,’ Ash answered, ignoring his client’s brusqueness. ‘Unnatural forces, images of real people now dead. Some of them are simply caused by draughts, though. It’s a centuries-old building,’ he added unnecessarily.
‘You’re saying?’
‘Certain things – sounds, rappings, cold spots – they may seem like phenomena but probably have easily explicable causes. Wooden beams and floorboards contracting at night as the castle cools down can often sound like knocking, or floorboards contracting one by one can sound like footsteps. Cold spots can be due to small holes in the stonework, chilly air from outside sweeping through, sometimes a whistling draught can be mistaken for a creature howling. And Comraich is high on a clifftop with, I’m told, caves running beneath. Subsidence, flowing underground streams, small animals such as bats, can also create noises or shifts in the atmosphere as well as rancid smells. And I haven’t even mentioned vermin.’
‘The castle has five cats to control rodents.’
‘Well, there again, cats themselves can make noises in the night. I’m just trying to assure you that there are many common occurrences in buildings – especially large buildings with structural weaknesses, or resident animals and pets – which might cause concern if their unobserved movements are misunderstood.’
Haelstrom harrumphed in displeasure. ‘Would you say a man splattered against a wall and hung there to die of, let’s face it, fright, can be explained as a natural act?’
‘Good God, no.’ Ash leaned forward, wrists on knees, fists slightly clenched. ‘Sir Victor, you obviously do have a problem here. Whether Douglas Hoyle was murdered by some unnatural force or someone human with incredible strength and an attitude problem can’t be decided at this point. I have to look into it further.’
‘You surely can’t suggest a person did this to the poor man, killed him then used his blood as some sort of extraordinary Velcro to pin him to the wall.’ Haelstrom’s chortle at his tasteless joke was scornful and meant to be so.
‘No, of course not,’ said Ash, sitting back with a frustrated sigh. ‘But that’s precisely why I have to look around the level underneath Hoyle’s observation suite. I felt energy emanating from there, energy so powerful it literally threw me bodily through the doorway.’
‘Yes, I was told about that. Babbage assures me there was no trickery involved.’
That comment irritated the parapsychologist even further, but it took more than that these days to make him lose his cool. ‘Can you think of any possible reason that I, or the Institute, should try to dupe you? I’m here to carry out a serious investigation.’
‘For which you are being generously rewarded,’ Haelstrom came back at him, this time the one who leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
‘No, you’re paying the respectable and highly respected Psychical Research Institute to discover whether Comraich is haunted or not. And I’m the best investigator you’ll ever get. Now, there might be a practical solution that has nothing to do with spirits, poltergeists, demons or any other paranormal forces, and I’ve no intention of inventing them just to earn our fee, no matter how high it might be. That’s between you and Kate McCarrick.’
‘All right, all right,’ Haelstrom murmured gruffly. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Without chagrin, Ash told the big man, ‘I need to see those architectural drawings I asked you for at lunchtime.’
br /> ‘I’m afraid Derriman has found only two, one dating back to the 1950s, when extensive renovations were carried out, the second from sometime in the nineteenth century. The original plans unfortunately no longer exist. All others have been either lost or destroyed.’
He swivelled his head round to his manservant, who had been dutifully standing by the drinks cabinet, hands held behind his back, body straight. Maybe the poor guy’s never at ease in his master’s presence, thought Ash sympathetically.
‘Byrone, go through to the drawing room and fetch the two rolled drawings that are lying on the desk there,’ Haelstrom ordered before turning back to the investigator. ‘The castle has a bloody history, d’you see? Many things have been lost to the past.’
But not the ghosts, Ash mused. They were not lost to Comraich.
Byrone quickly returned carrying two long rolls of paper, one an off-white vellum, the other yellowed like old parchment. He brought them directly to Haelstrom, who had been gazing at Ash without speaking. He indicated the investigator with a pointed finger.
‘Give them to Mr Ash,’ he said.
The butler crossed the room again and handed the drawings to the investigator before returning to his place by the drinks cabinet.
‘Study them later, Ash, within the confines of your own room. I don’t expect they’ll be much use to you, but you never know – something might turn up. Perhaps a room that shouldn’t be there, a wall so thick there might be a secret passageway inside. I wish you luck.’
Ash didn’t bother to unroll the long scrolls there and then, but placed them carefully beside him on the satin seat.
‘So far, you haven’t told me much,’ said Haelstrom, his displeasure evident.
‘So far, there isn’t much to tell,’ Ash responded. ‘Tonight I intend to go through the castle’s upper regions, just to make the initial observation complete. I’ll take some equipment with me, in case I find an opportune location to test. Tomorrow I can set up many more detection instruments, and I’ll have to declare some parts of the building out of bounds, not only to your guests, but your staff too.’