‘I’d like you to be accompanied by someone tonight – Babbage or Derriman. Only to guide you and keep you away from anywhere out of bounds.’
‘That’s not going to work. I have to have freedom of movement.’
‘Yes, it’s an awkward predicament, isn’t it? Unfortunately, that’s how it stands.’
‘I take it that still includes the old dungeons.’
‘It does, though I’m sure you wouldn’t like it there, anyway.’
He frowned at Haelstrom. ‘Just what have you got down there, Sir Victor? Is there something you’re hiding?’
The question was put bluntly and belligerently, so Ash was surprised by the big man’s reaction. Haelstrom laughed, and this time it was genuine, bringing tears to the corner of his small deep-set eyes. He beat the arm of his chair with the flat of his free hand, the other holding on to the dregs of the Japanese whisky.
Still spluttering, and with Ash just staring at him, Haelstrom managed to say, ‘Hide . . . hiding from . . . you. That’s very rich. Don’t . . . don’t you see it’s for your own . . . your own good?’
Ash stiffened, his anger becoming hard to hold down. What made this thick-headed buffoon laugh so much at the suggestion that he might be hiding something from the investigator? Then it dawned on him. Comraich was hiding all its guests from the outside world – Hoyle, Lucan, the defrocked archbishop, the Serbian war criminal – but was it so obvious? Making a joke of the obvious? Was that why Haelstrom was laughing so much?
Whatever it was, Ash was quickly losing patience. ‘Have you got someone imprisoned’ – he used the word coldly, dispassionately – ‘in the cells down there you don’t want me to see? Is that the big secret?’
Haelstrom placed the crystal glass on a small side table and reached awkwardly into his trouser pocket. He drew out a wrinkled handkerchief, laughing in short fits now. He blew his nose noisily and it seemed to sober him a little.
‘No, Ash,’ he managed to say between gasping in breaths. Finally, his broad shoulders stopped shaking and he was in control once more.
‘No, Ash,’ he repeated, with scarce apology in his voice.
‘Then what is it? You want me to make a thorough investigation, yet you’re banning me from key areas.’
‘I wasn’t joking. It really is for your own safety.’ His shoulders jerked as he suppressed another chortle. He did his best to regard the investigator seriously.
‘You see, Mr Ash, underground . . . Well, underground is our containment area. It’s where we keep our lunatics . . .’
33
Kate McCarrick sat alone in her office in the Psychical Research Institute and struggled to calm her own anxiety. Most of her staff had left for the night, so only a few other offices and the hallways were lit. She’d become used to the peculiar sense of loneliness that came with working late in a building almost emptied of other people. And sometimes, for her, it could be even worse.
That was when she had time to go through reports of hauntings that were sometimes horrific in their detail. Seasoned though she was, hardened to all things weird though she might be, there were times when Kate would rather be in normal company, particularly on late evenings like this.
She’d expected to receive a status report from Ash, but there had been no word. Kate had rung his mobile phone number, but there was no connection, not even a ring tone, and because she had no number for Comraich itself, she’d been forced to call Simon Maseby at his office.
Simon had assured her that all was well, that he’d spoken to someone at Comraich who told him David Ash had arrived safely and was already busy with his investigation. He had also explained that she couldn’t reach David on his mobile phone because there was no signal, and no, he couldn’t give her the castle’s phone number because of the strict security there. Kate had almost flipped when she heard that. Why hadn’t he told her all this before? Simon allayed her anxiety by telling Kate that he would be visiting Comraich himself the next day for an important conference. He would report back directly to her of David’s progress. In fact, Sir Victor was hoping his initial investigation would be completed before the conference took place.
He’d finished by asking her whether she fancied a late supper. ‘I really enjoyed last night – you still know all the right moves in bed.’
Kate had wanted to gag at that, but she only had herself to blame: she’d allowed the little toad to seduce her with hardly a fight. And what a miserable night it had turned out to be. She wasn’t sure it was the alcohol or just plain bloody boredom. But regretting it now was no good; the deed was done, with no reward on her part.
‘Fuck you, Maseby!’ she’d said aloud, but only after she’d slammed the phone down.
Kate needed to be in touch with her investigator, mainly because she couldn’t be sure of how well David would stand up to another ghastly haunting.
But Kate had other friends in high places and having contacted one in particular that afternoon, she might just find out a bit more about this rather sinister organization called the Inner Court.
34
On returning to his room, Ash found a surprise waiting for him in the form of a small silver-foil-wrapped package laid on his bed where he couldn’t miss it. Beside it was a brief note: David, thought you might miss your dinner tonight because of the work you have to do, so arranged for the kitchen to make you a sandwich for later on. Hope it’s to your liking.
It was signed D and with a big X for a kiss. God, he hoped it wasn’t from Derriman.
He smiled to himself as he put the note back on the bed and picked up the package to sniff at it. It smelt like chicken and he realized he was hungry despite the good lunch he’d had.
He left it by the note on the bed and mentally thanked Delphine for being so thoughtful. The marked kiss, despite his self-imposed reservations, was a bonus.
Opening up his suitcase, he began assembling the equipment he required for his investigation that night. For this opening stratagem he needed only basic kit: a brushed cotton multi-pocket gilet, the type serious anglers might use (he slipped it on before his field jacket so that now he had more pockets than he would ever need, but it would serve as an extra layer during the cold hours). He’d be taking with him a Nite MX10 wristwatch with gaseous Tritium self-powered light sources that made the dials brighter than luminescent paint; a digital nightsight with a direct video output so that whatever was happening could be viewed on a tiny battery-powered television screen; another powerful torch, impact- and water-resistant, that used capacitor technology so that it took a mere ninety seconds to recharge fully; next came a folding steel walking stick, so it could be either hand-held or tucked away in one of the jacket’s deeper pockets; and a fully automatic ‘wildlife’ infrared camera that could wirelessly transmit pictures to a remote monitor; finally, he picked a short LED torch with flood-to-spot beam.
Left in the suitcase were a set of ultra-powerful 12 km range walkie-talkies, a pocket monocular, and a fibre-optic flexiscope, used for inspecting nooks and crannies, or any fissures that might prove interesting.
These were all instruments that could come in useful for his night vigil, but there were other pieces of equipment he chose not to use on this initial surveillance, such as an electrometer (for measuring electromagnetism) which he often found too sensitive to the static in one’s own body to be truly useful. The voice- or noise-activated tape recorder would be a must when he really got down to the job the following night, as would thermometers, barometers (for measuring atmospheric pressure), motion sensors, and other miscellaneous apparatus. Talcum powder, graphs, chalk, coloured pencils, transparent tape, cotton, were all standard paranormal search equipment, and all devices required for a psychic study, but again, unnecessary for this night: he still wanted to get a ‘feel’ of the castle, rather than exact proof of ghostly, nocturnal activity.
As an afterthought, he lifted out a thermal scanning gun which could measure cold spots from a distance of thirty metres.
 
; Before leaving, he mixed an absinthe and water and downed it in one. It’s going to be a long lonely night, Ash thought to himself as the drink momentarily warmed his chest. And the big question was, would he find ghosts roaming the hallways and chambers of Comraich Castle? Or any evidence at all of a haunting, and a particularly malign haunting at that? Outside the window was an almost full moon, the huge courtyard below washed silver, the gardens and woods a monotone grey that if stared at too long would induce all kinds of immobile images to the over-imaginative. But he wouldn’t allow mental vagaries to take hold, wouldn’t let his own fears govern his thoughts. He would come to this situation as he had others in the past: his professionalism would dictate his actions, former events of a similar nature wouldn’t be allowed to feed his fear.
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.
35
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 wit
h . . .’ 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.