He tried Delphine’s room first, knocking quietly on the door. When there was no response he knocked more urgently. Finally, he turned the knob and went in.
The room was empty.
With the fuss that had gone on, the sedated guests had all been confined to their rooms, bringing an eerie quietness to the halls and corridors. But that didn’t mean that none would require treatment. Perhaps her office would provide a clue.
Ash hurried from the room and set off down the corridor leading to the grand stairway. He shuddered as he passed the ruined lift shaft, two yellow lengths of warning tape crisscrossing the outer door to prevent anyone opening it. Passing only one armed guard, Ash took to the deep-red carpeted stairway, two steps at a time.
At the sound of his muffled footsteps, the old, white-haired guard, in his usual position at the bottom of the stairs, peered round and gave the investigator a gently suspicious look.
Ash stopped and asked him abruptly, ‘D’you know which is Dr Wyatt’s office?’
The old man watched him for a few seconds, his pale eyes seeming to search Ash’s face as if in an effort to read his mind. Finally, he raised a thick-fingered hand and pointed down the long lobby area.
‘Y’ll find it four doors down on the left, sir,’ he answered politely.
‘Thanks,’ said Ash and was off immediately, striding purposefully towards Delphine’s consulting room.
This time Ash walked straight in without knocking. He found himself in a small anteroom containing a two-seater sofa opposite an empty reception desk. Through the open door opposite he saw Delphine working at a desk. She looked up in surprise and her face lit up in a smile of welcome.
‘David,’ she said, beginning to rise from her chair.
Marching into the consulting room, Ash returned the smile with interest, kissing her hard on her lips and pushing her back into her seat.
The consulting room was decorated with easy-on-the-eye watercolour landscapes, the largest of which portrayed a brook running over smooth rocks and widening out into a pleasing stream. (Of consciousness? he wondered.) The walls were painted light pastel blue and a tall potted plant stood in one corner, with a vase of late flowers placed on a small coffee table.
She sighed after his lingering kiss. ‘What brings you here?’ she asked with a puzzled expression. ‘I was just finishing some paperwork, then I was going to find you.’
‘No secretary today?’ he asked.
‘All non-essential staff have been asked to stay in their quarters. With all that’s happened, many are too frightened to work anyway. Haven’t you noticed the terrible feeling of oppression that’s descended upon the castle? I suppose it could just be an emotive reaction because of all that’s happened here so recently.’
‘Happened so far, you mean.’
‘Do you think there will be more?’ Her eyes were wide and scared as she tilted her head up at him.
‘We have to leave, Delphine. After what happened to us this morning, I half expected you to be resting, or being treated in the medical unit.’
‘I wasn’t badly hurt by the wildcats. You took more punishment than me.’
She’d lifted one of his scratched and scored hands off the desk where it had rested. She tenderly kissed his fingers.
‘It’s okay. The painkillers haven’t quite lost their effect yet.’ The soothing creams and anaesthetics they’d used on his injuries, especially the slashes across his face, had in fact mostly worn off now, but he didn’t mention that to Delphine. He hoped the scars would fade in time.
‘Delphine, I’m serious about leaving. It’s darkening already and we should get out before it all starts happening again.’
‘What do you mean? The hauntings?’
He nodded. ‘I’m sure it’s going to peak tonight, and I don’t want to be around. And I don’t want you to be around, either. You have to come with me.’
Her eyes cast downwards, she said nothing for a while. Raising her head again she said, with just a hint of defiance in her voice, ‘We’ve discussed this. For one,’ she said earnestly, ‘we could never get out of the grounds. The exits are too well guarded.’
‘We’ll find a way. Most of the attention will be inside the castle tonight.’
‘And two,’ she continued as though she’d not heard his words. ‘I can’t leave Lewis. He—’
‘Then I’ll carry him on my bloody back,’ Ash interrupted, frustrated.
‘You don’t understand, David. Comraich is his home. What would the outside world make of him?’
For that, Ash had no immediate answer. Even if they did make it, poor Lewis would be regarded as a freak. He’d be used as a guinea pig, a phenomenon, something to test, carry out experiments on. And he could never leave wherever they kept him; he could never walk the streets, face the sun, enjoy the cities because everybody would be staring at him. At least here he could walk the grounds, the gardens, the woods.
‘I’m sure we’d find somewhere that—’
‘No, it’s impossible, David.’ Delphine had made that sound like the last word on the subject, leaving Ash dismayed and disappointed – yet he understood her refusal.
An idea came to him. ‘What if we went to Lord Edward Shawcross-Dexter, whatever his name is, directly? Pleaded with him to let us go?’
‘Lord Edgar,’ she corrected him. ‘Lord Edgar Shawcroft-Draker.’
‘He sounds like a man of influence.’
‘Oh, he is. But Lord Edgar is also very unwell.’
That gave Ash a moment of pause.
‘He’s dying,’ Delphine added.
‘God . . .’
‘Mesothelioma. It’s a very rare and incurable cancer. Sir Edgar has a massive tumour in his stomach and others in his right lung and neck.’
No wonder the man looked so grey, Ash thought with a shock.
‘It’s the reason for the conference tonight. It’s to elect his successor as head of the Inner Court.’
Ash glanced down, gave a tiny shake of his head. When he looked up again, he said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was dying?’
‘Was I supposed to? It’s a confidential medical matter, and as a doctor myself, I shouldn’t have even mentioned his condition to you.’
‘I’m sorry. It really is incurable?’
‘I’m afraid so. It’s only medication that’s holding the disease at bay. Without the drugs, I think he’d be dead by now.’
‘How long d’you think he’ll last?’ Ash genuinely cared, even though he distrusted this powerful man and his clandestine organization.
‘Who can tell? It could be three months, it might be tomorrow. That’s why the conference can’t be put off.’
‘But if Shawcroft-Draker is on his last legs . . . I’m sorry . . .’ he held up a hand in defence, ‘I didn’t mean to be so blunt, but if the thought of dying has mellowed him somewhat, then he just might be receptive to our leaving. All three of us – you, me, and Lewis. He might even let us use the jet.’
‘Oh, David, for someone so pragmatic, you’re being foolishly optimistic.’
‘And I’m known for my pessimism,’ he said wryly but with a genuine smile. ‘Look, let’s take a chance. If we can get to see Lord Edgar, and I explain that the situation at Comraich is getting worse, he might listen. After all, that’s why I was hired in the first place. My credentials are sound.’
She shook her head despondently. ‘I don’t know. I think they overestimated what you could do in the first place. Besides, he’ll be preparing for tonight’s conference.’
‘So we know where he’ll be at present – in his suite on the fifth. D’you have any idea of who will take over? Haelstrom?’
‘I think Sir Victor would prefer to get back into the business of selling arms to foreign buyers. The Inner Court’s main clients over the years have been the Emirates and African states. He’d already earned his honorary title and efforts had to be made to ensure he didn’t lose it.’
‘Efforts by the Inner Court, of course.?
??
‘Of course,’ she affirmed. ‘He needed to be out of the spotlight for some time, so here he is.’
‘Naturally. I bet he hates it.’
‘I’m sure he does.’
‘So.’ He took a long breath. ‘Will you agree to my plan?’
‘Appealing to Lord Edgar? You’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?’
His silence gave her the answer.
‘I thought perhaps you could stay with Lewis while I saw Shawcroft-Draker. Then, if he agrees, I’ll come and get you. If he doesn’t, I’ll come and get you anyway and we’ll make our way out without his help.’
She seemed resigned to the idea.
‘One other thing,’ he said.
Delphine closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Nothing dangerous, David, please,’ she pleaded when she opened them again.
‘Is Haelstrom’s office empty? You said most staff had been confined to quarters, and I imagine he and Derriman will be welcoming the conference delegates.’
She nodded apprehensively. ‘Sir Victor will, certainly. I don’t know about Mr Derriman.’
‘Can you get me in?’
‘Why, David?’
He told her about the memory stick Derriman had brought in, and the six numbers stamped on it.
‘I need to get into that cabinet, Delphine. Nobody will know of your involvement, I promise you.’ His smile was closed-lipped and wide, with little humour. ‘Will your key card get us into the office?’
She nodded slowly.
‘Then what are we waiting for?’
‘Suppose Sir Victor isn’t receiving the delegates? Suppose he’s in his office?’ said Delphine.
‘Tell you what, we’ll ask the old boy sitting by the stairway if he knows where Haelstrom and Derriman are. If either is still in the office, we’ll forget it.’
He kissed her forehead, and then her lips as a kind of reassurance, and she returned the kiss fully. His senses heightened, it felt as though he were melting into her and he was reluctant to pull away.
Finally, he did so, leaving them both breathless.
Without another word, he led her by the hand through the empty outer office and into the lobby. As she turned to close the door behind them, Ash noticed someone in a smart dark blue overcoat entering through the castle’s main doors. The man closed the big door and came marching across the lobby, well-shined shoes clacking against the hard marble floor. He was towing a small, wheeled suitcase behind him. One of the tiny wheels squealed noisily in the silence of the long, almost empty lobby.
The slicked-back black hair, grey at the temples, the expensive silk tie and stiff-collared white shirt. The smug look on his clean-shaven, puffed-out face.
‘Oh, no,’ Ash groaned. ‘That’s all I need.’
65
Simon Maseby waved energetically at Ash, a gesture the investigator declined to return.
‘Be with you in a moment,’ Maseby called out as he reached the reception desk. ‘Same old room, I take it, Gerrard?’ His voice sounded hollow in the long hallway.
‘Yes, sir, the usual one. Aired and ready for you to move straight in.’
‘I assume the others have already checked in?’
‘Seven so far, sir. The rest will be arriving shortly.’
‘Jolly good. And Sir Victor, Mr Derriman – where will I find them? In the office?’
The sallow-faced receptionist gave a polite shake of his head. ‘Oh no, sir. They’ll be in the reception room with the other new arrivals at the moment.’
‘And Lord Edgar?’
‘In his suite, preparing for the conference, sir. Dinner will be first on the agenda, after the welcome cocktails.’
‘Hmn, looks like I need to catch up,’ Maseby said briskly.
‘There’s no rush, Mr Maseby, sir. Cocktail hour always overruns.’
‘Indeed it does,’ replied Maseby, giving Gerrard a knowing wink. He then turned his attention in the direction of Ash and Delphine, who were waiting near the centre of the lobby.
He marched straight towards them, one hand already outstretched for Ash to shake, which the investigator reluctantly did, noting the soft clammy feel of the other man’s grip; when he’d first met the dapper consultant, his handshake had been dry and firm. Perhaps he had uncomfortable thoughts on his mind this evening. Maseby immediately turned to Delphine.
‘Dr Wyatt. It’s a pleasure to meet again. I doubt there’s any psychologist as pretty as you in the whole of the kingdom.’
She smiled limply at his patronizing remark, but before she could say anything, he’d turned back to Ash, his manner abruptly altered.
‘I hear you’re not helping much with these alleged hauntings,’ he said, a frown barely furrowing his smooth forehead. Ash wondered if he used Botox.
‘That’s not quite true,’ Ash answered calmly, determined not to let Maseby get under his skin. ‘I’ve established that the hauntings are real. I’ve advised Sir Victor that he should evacuate the castle.’
‘Come, come, that’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?’ the consultant sneered.
Ash shrugged casually, and was pleased to see a spark of annoyance in the other man’s sharp little eyes.
‘Then I think you should come up and give me a verbal report while I change for cocktails and dinner.’
‘Can’t do it.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Maseby bridled. ‘What d’you mean, you can’t? I insist.’
‘You can insist all you like, but right now I’m too busy. Maybe later?’ he added, fairly sure that everybody would be ‘too busy’ later that night, though he wasn’t planning to be among them.
‘Well . . . well, if that’s the best you can do, so be it,’ Maseby blustered. ‘But you can be sure I shall be reporting your attitude to your superiors.’
‘So be it,’ Ash said firmly, throwing Maseby’s own words back at him.
The smartly dressed consultant turned sharply away from Ash and Delphine and quickly strode to the curved staircase. He mounted the steps two at a time, not acknowledging the old guard’s salute as he passed by.
Placid Pat couldn’t have cared less: his mind was on other things.
66
The ex-Reverend Father Patrick O’Connor had been in a sour but reflective mood all day. All the comings and goings: watching a collection of guards being briefed on their mission to clear the woodland of wildcats; the return of the two foolish young people as well as the so-called ghost hunter and the lovely psychologist; the hurrying and scurrying of maids, servants, waiters and cleaners, preparing for tonight’s jamboree.
But Jaysus, that fat, black despot hiding from an African country he’d brought to its knees, hundreds and thousands starved to death or killed horribly by his own militia, a clutch of war criminals and the so-called businessmen, cheaters and liars, even God damn them, rapists! All living in luxury in this haunted grand abode. Oh yes, he knew it was haunted, always had been since he’d arrived more than thirty years ago, but this time haunted fiercely, the Divil finding his own spinning their lives out in undeserved luxury for an impossibly high fee. But in the end, the Divil will out. It was a true saying, all right.
On the doorstep earlier, he’d wondered about the yellow sky, a dirty yellow sky smeared with sin but now turned to the deep blue that came with nightfall. The moon had become sallow as the hours drew onwards, as if that same yellowness of sky had been drawn into it. And even the smell of the old castle had changed, for a strange acrid pungency wafted through the halls and passageways.
All day he’d brooded, thinking back to when he was a priest, where the flock of his parish in the little town came to him with their problems and to confess their sins. Honest, God-fearing people who laid aside feuds and differences for that blessed morning, the men always wearing their finest suits, the kids with their faces and necks scrubbed clean, women in their nicest frocks, their Sunday best, hardy folk who paid true homage to their maker. Sure an’ all, the men might get drunk and rowdy on a weekend night, bu
t when Sunday came along, they still attended service despite groggy heads and lumps and bruises marking their Saturday night’s entertainment.
The counselling he gave to humble, husband-beaten wives during the week, explaining to them divorce was a grave sin in the eyes of the Church. But since then he’d had plenty of time to think. Why should women be treated so? Had Christ ever said that leaving a cruel husband was wrong? Were the eyes of the Church the same as the eyes of God?
And then there were the lasses, so happy and filled with life. How many had come to him fallen from grace, pregnant by a lad who’d said he loved them? Was it right that they should not cross the Irish Sea to find an abortionist? Who was he to judge, a sinner himself? A murderous sinner. A grievous sinner.
And as the long day had slowly passed, as the very air in the castle became ever more tainted with evil, his thoughts turned again to the grievous sin that was being continuously committed by another man of the cloth, one of his own faith: Archbishop Carsely.
He could not exactly know what corruption the deluded man imposed on poor Sister Thimble every day, but it showed in her eyes, the darkness around them evidence of the torture she was undergoing constantly. Pat was sure that sexual depravity was involved. Yet there was no sign of remorse on that pompous cleric, even though his sin was evident in the good sister’s expression. It couldn’t go on. He would not allow it to go on.
He felt the weight of the gun beneath his zipped-up gilet, and his plan gathered pace. His frustration in his brethren’s failings had increased recently, and it had crossed his mind that other forces might be working on his subconscious, teasing him with lascivious thoughts of what Archbishop Carsely and the nun were up to. They had been growing worse, and now Placid Pat felt broken and confused. But, above all, he was filled with self-righteous fury.
Something had to be done, the artful voices in his head told him. The false bishop was shaming all Catholics, including himself, who was paying penance for his own sins in this strange purgatory. Carsely’s debauchery demonstrated that there was no contrition in the prelate’s heart.
The man must accept his punishment now, on this very day. And it would be administered by the Reverend Father Patrick O’Connell.