He turned to see that Twigg was walking away, continuing down the hallway.
‘Just the wildcats,’ the shabby little man mumbled over his shoulder to Ash. ‘Just cats hunting, doing what they do best.’
Ash closed the window against the gruesome, piteous racket. But even thus deadened, the sounds of slaughter troubled him more than he could say.
46
All-night vigils were usually boring affairs: no ghostly manifestations, no mysterious knocking, no unaccountable footsteps, no instrument malfunction. It was why parapsychology was so often ridiculed as a pseudoscience. Still, progress was being made. The discipline had been acknowledged by several academic bodies in the UK, and there was at least one parapsychology unit, at a university in Edinburgh, and other institutions offered parapsychology courses as well as conducting research into paranormal activity.
However, Ash knew that to most people the concepts of black streams (ley lines of negative influence), stage-one apparitions (those that could be caught on camera while being invisible to the naked eye) and EVP (electronic voice phenomena) were little more than gobbledegook. Haelstrom had been too shaken to ridicule Ash’s theories outright during their earlier exchange, but the investigator was still unsure whether the CEO was yet ready to accept his notion that some kind of psychic epicentre existed beneath Comraich.
The man, and his executive board of the Inner Court, whoever they might be, were, not surprisingly, unfamiliar with unearthly matters and discarnate forces: why else would they have approached the Institute in the first place? Equally, however, they seemed to be overestimating just how much it was possible for Ash to achieve.
Ash found himself all but blaming Kate for not explaining the limitations of a psychic investigator to Simon Maseby at the very start. The huge fee on offer had perhaps blinded her to the reality of the situation. Or maybe she was just putting too much faith in her chief investigator’s ability to solve such problems. Yet he couldn’t find it in himself honestly to resent her, for he knew he was as important to her as she was to him. And clearly the true gravity of the situation here hadn’t been adequately conveyed to her by Simon Maseby. He felt certain Kate would be trying to contact him by now, and probably worrying herself sick because there was no way she could do so.
The awful noise from the woods had ceased by the time Ash decided to make another inspection of his equipment sites, his hard boots echoing through stone halls. If a ghost were waiting, it wouldn’t bother to hide: where would be the fun in that?
He strode down a passageway into yet another corridor; he checked rooms as he went, opening doors and looking in, avoiding the suites belonging to Haelstrom, as well as the area whose entrance was so much grander than any others, with giltwood, red-cushioned chairs with high backs on either side of the closed double doors, where beautiful paintings and skilful statuary abounded. Thick carpet here softened his footfalls and he hoped he wasn’t spoiling Lord Edgar Shawcroft-Draker’s neighbourhood with his working clothes.
Where the funny little man with the somewhat off-putting eyes had disappeared to, Ash had no idea; but this level was as complex and many-roomed as those below it, and no door bore a number or nameplate.
What a long and emotional day it had been. It was less than twenty-four hours since he’d left London, but it seemed like a week, so many things had occurred. Thankfully, nothing out of the ordinary was happening right now. He hoped. He wandered on, his route already mapped out in his head, for he’d studied the plans of Comraich beforehand. As insurance, in his gilet pocket he carried a nifty little gadget that acted as an electronic ball of string, plotting his course. To return to his starting point, he merely had to tap a key and the route would reverse so that he could follow it back to base. It was perfect for complexly structured buildings, or even on a walk through the streets of an unknown city.
In a broad stone passageway somewhere near the labyrinthine castle’s centre he came upon a large arched doorway with hinges and scrollwork of black iron and nail-head ornamentation in the shape of a crucifix. A plain architrave of venerable thick wood bordered the door. He assumed this was the castle’s chapel. Ash thought he heard movement from inside and he stopped for a moment to listen.
A low continuous murmuring came to him. It sounded like an incantation, and he guessed the bishop and his acolyte were at their devotions. He hoped they were praying for deliverance from the evil that had assailed Comraich these past weeks. Deciding not to disturb them, Ash moved on.
He reached a narrow marble-topped console table on top of which was a delicately adorned vase filled with dead, sagging flowers. He stopped to examine the talcum powder he’d sprinkled around the base of the vase earlier to show whether the container had moved. It hadn’t. A further sprinkling along the top of the console was similarly undisturbed.
Ash had set many such markers around the fifth floor, as well as all manner of other apparatus including motion-sensitive cameras, self-registering thermographs, sensitive static sound recorders, anemometers, ventimeters and air meters.
He checked them all, but nothing had changed. The thermometers confirmed something that had been puzzling him since he arrived: the castle was bone-numbingly cold, despite the fierce heat emanating from the many radiators he passed. Maybe it was always this way in the upper reaches of Comraich. On the other hand, maybe the ‘uninvited’, the uncanny entities, had stolen all the energy they could plunder and used it for themselves, gaining power from it. To the layman, it would sound absurd, but Ash was experienced enough to know this was an indication of a genuine haunting. Still he roamed, examining and testing instruments and devices, discouraged but steadfast, determined to find the epicentre of the paranormal activity. In his heart, and his senses, he knew it was there, beneath the castle. He resolved that the following day he would investigate the caves below the cliffs that formed the promontory on which Comraich was built. They were the key to all this, he was sure.
Strangely enough, Ash didn’t feel tired. Far from it: the day’s thrills, both welcome and otherwise, had stimulated his mind and body. He knew it was a trait that made him good at his job. He mightn’t exactly appreciate all the problems that came his way, but he did enjoy solving them.
Ash opened a window and listened, but all he could hear was the crashing of waves against the cliff below. It was a raging violent noise, but it was a thousand times better than the pitiful cries of the animals preyed upon by the intruding wildcats. That was something else that puzzled him: why were the wildcats drawn to Comraich? What had brought them to this source of ungodly malfeasance?
The fresh sea air, although wild and tangy, refreshed his face and he let the wind blow over him, reviving his whole body and sharpening his mind. For a few minutes he remained there, the powerful breeze gusting into the corridor as if to sweep it free of malign infection.
Reluctantly, he closed the window again and, as he turned to walk down the corridor, he thought he saw something move in the shadows at the far end. He blinked, looked again, then dug into his leather jacket for the Maglite torch and aimed its bright beam at the spot. His mind may have been playing tricks, but he was sure he’d seen a hooded figure scurrying into the shadows.
‘Hey!’ he called out, expecting no response and receiving none.
Ash began moving swiftly down the corridor. He called out again, louder this time. All he heard in return was the echo of his own voice and the soft scuffling of feet up ahead, as if someone were climbing the steps of the tower at the end of the passageway.
Panting a little, he reached the tower’s arched entrance and shone the light upwards.
The spiral staircase curled around a thick central shaft built of sizeable old-stone brickwork. He’d seen from outside that the towers had windows, so he presumed they also contained rooms and floors. Did the hooded figure inhabit one? More scuffling noises came to him, but the footsteps were slower now.
He called out again. ‘Can I talk to you? I mean you no harm.’ The fa
int sounds paused for a second, then resumed, fading as they went higher.
Ash had little choice but to follow, though he found the idea as appealing as venturing into a lion’s den. He began to ascend the well-worn wooden steps, taking them slowly, cautiously, nervously. From above he heard the sound of a door opening and then closing.
Almost immediately he came to a landing. There was a door off it, but he was sure it wasn’t the one he’d just heard being opened and closed. That sound had been soft, barely audible. Ash felt certain it had come from higher up.
His suspicions were confirmed when he heard more scuffling footsteps on the level above. Taking a mighty breath, he continued up the stairway. Round he went, his left shoulder scraping against the curving wall, aware that his haste was affecting his balance. Steadying himself by placing a hand on the central pillar, he held the Maglite in his left hand and proceeded more carefully.
Why had this hooded person fled from him? Ash had presented no danger. He’d merely called out, then followed. And why the strange garb? Another of the bishop’s acolytes, maybe? Whatever, it was an eerie costume to see in the dead of night, but although it was stereotypical of reported ghost sightings, he’d never actually witnessed one dressed like that himself.
Another noise interrupted his thoughts.
It sounded like someone, or something, falling.
And then a guttural noise. A stifled sob?
Ash mounted the last few stairs to the topmost landing. As he faced the closed door through which his quarry must have passed, a chill ran down his spine, despite the sweat-inducing chase. Perspiration had soaked his entire body – the sweat of fear as much as exhaustion. He felt clammy, shivery, shuddery, and although a numbing sensation affected his body, he knew it was all in his mind. His mind, and the mood within Comraich itself.
Grimacing, biting into his lower lip to bring conscious pain that would help restore his own reality, he strode towards the closed door and, without hesitation, turned the handle and pushed it open.
There was a feeble nightlight near the base of the room’s curved outer wall and in its glow Ash could make out the shapes of furniture – chairs, a sideboard, a free-standing cupboard, a table, a writing bureau and a bed. There were few other comforts.
A low snuffling noise brought his attention back to the bed and he was able to see a dark shape cowering beside it. He saw at the edge of his vision a light azure haze hovering over the crouching figure, so insubstantial that it was almost invisible and which vanished frustratingly whenever he tried to focus on it.
Ash realized that the Maglite in his hand was still pointing to the floor. He raised the torch and shone it directly at the quaking shape beside the bed. He moved the beam slowly, like a searchlight, afraid of what it might illuminate. His fear proved well founded when the cringing, brown-robed person lurched towards him.
Ash deliberately aimed the light full into the shaded cowl, and when he saw the face, the unremitting glare of the Maglite exposing all that had been hidden beneath the deep shadows of the hood, he felt his heart would stop.
Ash’s eyes widened. He wanted to exclaim in horror, but all he could do was stare, his mind unable to make sense of what was before him. The torch almost slipped from his hand, perhaps a psychological reaction to something he really didn’t want to see. He didn’t waver, though, the light shining deep into the dark cavern of the hood revealing every hideous detail of the face, of the thing, that could no longer hide from him.
But eventually the sight proved too much, and Ash staggered backwards, hitting the doorframe with his shoulder.
And then he froze as he registered the sound of pounding footsteps on the creaky wooden steps below.
47
Kate McCarrick and Gloria Standwell pulled up the collars of their topcoats as they stepped out of the restaurant into the dark, narrow London street. It was drizzling rain, but the restaurant thoughtfully provided umbrellas for its regular patrons. Thus protected from the fine mist of rain, they set off in search of a taxi.
Kate was reflecting on all that had been revealed to her over dinner that evening and, desperate to know more about the Inner Court, was the first to speak.
‘I understand how powerful this organization must be, but are they directly involved in politics?’
This brought a smile to Gloria’s face. ‘Oh, you’d better believe it.’
‘For example?’
Gloria hesitated once more, then shrugged her shoulders.
‘Do you remember back in the seventies, Kate, when you and I were just kids?’
‘Oh yes,’ Kate drawled, ‘I remember them well, Glo, but I don’t think we were much bothered about politics then.’
‘No, course not. But you remember Harold Wilson, the former prime minister?’
‘Vaguely, yes. Though more from what I’ve read since. He claimed MI5 tapped his phone, didn’t he?’
‘He did, and he was right.’
Although both women were huddled under the umbrella, they kept their voices low.
‘Did they really imagine he was working for the KGB?’ asked Kate.
They left the pavement to cross to the other side of the street. Kate noticed the reflection of the brilliantly white moon surrounded by silver-edged clouds reflected on the puddles. She wondered if it was as clear in Scotland, and whether David was looking at the same moon. As they reached the other side, with the drizzle beginning to ease, Gloria continued.
‘If you remember, the country was constantly racked by strikes. The powers behind the powers that be—’
‘Like the Inner Court?’
‘Precisely. They were ashamed and embarrassed that Britain was being called “the sick man of Europe”. We were slowly being stifled by the unions. Everywhere you looked, workers were on strike. Some union bosses were undoubtedly working for the Russians, and when the miners’ strike forced Ted Heath out, the country was entirely on the rocks, so to speak. People couldn’t get to work because of train strikes, the working week was cut to three days because we didn’t have enough power to keep industry going – oh boy, we were in a total mess.
‘Wilson won the 1974 election, but then other powers started to act. Wilson’s name was smeared by the right-wing press and those behind it. They wrote about his mental health – implied he was going doolally – alleged he was having an affair with his private secretary Marcia Falkender, and so on and so on.
‘What the press didn’t know, however, was that plans were being laid for a military coup. Lord Louis Mountbatten would lead it. All major ports and airports were to be seized, as well as the BBC studios. The Queen would urge the public to support the armed forces, because the government could no longer keep order.’
Kate stopped dead and turned to face Gloria. ‘I can’t believe it! A military coup in Britain?’
‘Seems impossible, doesn’t it? But I can assure you, Kate, it was all deadly serious. Those wielding the real power felt the country couldn’t be allowed to wither and die. And the Inner Court was in the thick of it, but on Britain’s side, thank God. If the population had really known what was going on at that time, well, I think probably civil war would have broken out. Yet it was all kept under cover, although there were inevitably rumours.’
They began walking again, heels clattering on the wet pavement. Gloria glanced at Kate. ‘I don’t think it would ever have happened,’ she soothed. ‘The British are not cut out for mutiny.’
Kate sifted through her memory. ‘What did happen to Wilson?’
‘Forced out of office and replaced by Jim Callaghan. The usual reason: “ill-health”, which actually did materialize later. He resigned in the same week as Princess Margaret announced her divorce from Lord Snowdon. The irony was that many suspected Wilson’s resignation was timed to deflect attention from the royal family’s embarrassment. In truth, the precise opposite was the case: Princess Margaret’s announcement was meant to take the spotlight off the country’s perilous situation.’
 
; They had reached the end of the narrow street and, as they faced the busy main road Gloria said, ‘The point is, that episode helped the Inner Court gain even more power within the political system, because it helped instigate a perfect campaign against both socialism and trade unionism.’
‘I thought Margaret Thatcher was supposed to be responsible for saving the country from the unions.’
‘But who do you think was behind her?’
‘I don’t believe it. Thatcher would never work with an organization like the Inner Court.’
‘You must remember: this all happened very subtly. But the IC did make a huge mistake at first – it backed Edward Heath, the prime minister for a short time before Wilson.’
Kate could only smile in dismay yet again and shake her head.
But Gloria wasn’t to be deterred; in a way, telling her friend of the machinations of government and industry was cathartic for her. She’d kept these secrets for so long.
She continued, ‘The Inner Court knew about the idea of a European Community that was seriously being bandied about. In fact, they encouraged it.’
Kate laughed.
‘You see, they wanted Great Britain tied with Europe because it would be very advantageous for their businesses, especially the armaments trade. A union of European countries would be marvellous for their organization. So they first helped Heath become prime minister in 1970. He was a buffoon but a very useful buffoon. The only thing they couldn’t make him do was get married. Those were the days when homosexuality was still pretty unacceptable, particularly in politicians. But he was stubborn. So the rumour was started that he was asexual, though some of the young men and boys who crewed his yacht might say otherwise.’
A taxi came along, its for-hire beacon lit, but they let it pass. The conversation was too good to finish just yet.