‘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?’
Ash took another sip of the whisky before he spoke, trying to dilute his abhorrence of the tale just told. He waited for the heat the single malt had created in his chest to subside before answering. ‘I think all legends eventually become exaggerated,’ he said. ‘I hear some pretty gruesome things about many ancient manor houses, and especially castles, much of the time in my line of work. It doesn’t necessarily make them true, but I do know that certain inhuman activities can create a mark that lives on with the property. Such excesses as you have described can send out resonances so intense that they are recorded into the buildings’ very fabric. Given time – and it could take hundreds of years – they may fade away of their own accord. You could say, like a battery running down.’
‘An understandable reaction, Mr Ash. I mean, from you.’
‘I’ve studied these phenomena for many years,’ he said, placing his hand over the tumbler as Byrone approached with the bottle.
‘I’m sure you have many interesting tales, Mr Ash. But let me finish the story of the Mullachd, if you’d care to hear its ending, of course,’ the present laird of Comraich Castle said, regarding Ash as if immensely interested in his reaction.
‘I do dislike unfinished legends, embellished or not.’ Ash had the feeling that this wily old man was testing him for some reason that he couldn’t fathom.
‘Then you will be interested in this. Laghlan Deahan was not yet finished with the unfortunate Laird McKinnon. While two strong men held him down, the Demon pushed the red-hot blade into McKinnon’s left eye. And as the man screamed, the searing blade was pulled free, and slowly inserted into the other eye. Yet although McKinnon writhed in agony, still he never once pleaded for mercy.
‘They pulled him to his feet and made ready to haul him down to the castle dungeons to live out whatever life remained for him in complete darkness and tormented by memories. But somehow – whether because McKinnon possessed incredible strength and fortitude, or because the pain and torture had ignited in him unnatural powers – somehow he broke free of the men holding him to stagger to the very edge of the battlements.
‘Leaping into a crenel, he turned back to face his tormentors and he screamed his last defiance at them. The curse. The Mullachd.
‘He told them that the castle, so hard fought for, would never be left in peace, that it would eventually be consumed by the same fires that had eaten away his own eyes.
‘Then, before anyone could reach him – though personally, I imagine that no one tried too hard to do so – Laird Duncan McKinnon leapt to his death on the rocky shoreline far below.’
Shawcroft-Draker had lost himself for a few moments, for he gazed unblinkingly into the flames of the fire as though seeing images there of the legend he had just recounted. He’d related it with such unabashed and graphic detail it was as if it gave him distorted pleasure.
After a few quiet moments, the old man, the head of Comraich Castle, forced his attention away from the unwarming blaze and turned it on the psychic investigator.
74
Placid Pat raised his head, although he remained on his knees in the small aisle that led to the chapel’s altar. From outside came the sound of the helicopter settling on the castle’s helipad as its searchlight lit up the tall stained-glass window behind the statue of the Blessed Virgin.
He stared at Carsely, committing perverted sin in the very house of God, and the corrupted nun he sodomized in front of God’s altar, the scene now lit like a ghastly kaleidoscope.
Shaking, Placid Pat raised the pistol. Carsely lifted a hand and his voice boomed out as, even now, he continued his penetration.
‘Noooo!’
Pat pulled the trigger anyway. The click of the hammer echoed through the chapel. But the gun didn’t fire.
Pat quickly checked the safety catch and tried again, but the result was no different. He pulled back the slide to see if the bullet was actually in the chamber. It looked fine. It looked menacing. It looked good to go.
Releasing the slide, he tried one more time and still nothing happened. The debauched pair’s fear turned to laughter. Carsely thrust his hips in and out again.
‘It’s God’s will, you know!’ Carsely shouted, mocking him.
In frustration, Pat bowed his head and prostrated himself before the altar. The pistol lay discarded near his spread right hand. Tears fell onto the thin red carpet that led to the altar steps.
With blurred vision he saw the shape of the nun still bent over the length of the first pew, the ex-cleric continuing to mount her, still laughing derisively at the humbled figure lying no more than twelve feet from them. The nun beneath him sniggered.
But when the blast came from somewhere beneath the confined pulpit, she lost all sound, and when the flames that instantly followed engulfed them she no longer heard, nor saw, nor felt anything. She swallowed flames that seared her throat to boil her lungs as her priestly lover melted into her.
Placid Pat had seen enough explosions in his time to know that he was witnessing the effects not of God’s wrathful vengeance but of a concealed incendiary device. He watched in horrified resignation as flames flew down the aisle towards him. Within seconds, he had become part of the inferno. Pieces of burning timber fell from the vaulted ceiling, everything made of wood exploding into fire around him. He lay spread-eagled, his mind screaming with the agony of burning.
At least he was facing the altar.
At least his burning arms were stretched out as if in supplication.
And at least all pain, all remorse, all guilt was evaporating as he lay dying in the furnace that had once been the holy chapel of Comraich Castle.
75
The timing wasn’t great, but Ash knew he had to get round to the subject of his and Delphine’s departure. (It seemed best not to mention they wished to take the young man in the tower too at this particular juncture.)
Before he could speak, the old man held up an emaciated arm.
‘Byrone,’ Lord Edgar rasped, ‘I think I should take my other medicine now, don’t you? I’m sure it will give me time to finish my discussion with Mr Ash.’ He looked at the investigator. ‘Would you mind popping into the other room?’
Ash rose to his feet and took himself and his drink to Lord Edgar’s office. He was pondering how someone could tell a tale of such gory terror – and not without enthusiasm, as Lord Edgar had done only minutes ago, when Byrone appeared at the door.
‘His lordship is ready now,’ he announced, a puzzled expression on his long face.
As he followed Byrone into the smaller room, Ash wondered what kind of ‘medicine’ the butler had administered this time – he had already decided that the frail old man had been sipping morphine earlier. Byrone went to stand by the sideboard, where the cloth-covered tray still rested.
Lord Edgar Shawcroft-Draker gave Ash that queer half-smile that the investigator was becoming used to as Byrone filled another glass with murky-looking liquid and handed it to the laird.
‘I assume, Mr Ash, that you have many questions to ask about the Inner Court and Comraich Castle.’
God, there were so many questions Ash wanted to ask Lord Edgar, even though escaping Comraich was a priority.
‘Well . . .’ Ash began slowly, picking up as he went along, ‘I was wondering how you knew so much of the, uh, bloodier details of the Mullachd? It’s almost as if you were there.’ It was a crass remark, he knew, but over the years the parapsychologist had learned that flattery was the best way to gain a person’s trust.
What he got from Lord Edgar was a desiccated chuckle. ‘It was written down, young man, as near to the actuality as dammit. You see McKinnon employed a young scribe, whom Laghlan Deahan forced to record the events. The Gaelic account was translated into English for King Edward II
I and bound into a book. Copies of both are in Comraich’s private library.’
Ash sipped his whisky, relishing the smoky taste. He wondered how well it mixed with the Modafinil.
Shawcroft-Draker appraised him. ‘The curse is common knowledge. What we cannot understand is why the castle is now apparently being haunted after so many years of peace. We had hoped you would pinpoint the source of the hauntings and so advise us how to end it.’
‘I’m no exorcist. I told Maseby and Haelstrom that.’
‘No, but I understand you are skilled in the alleviation of such problems.’
Ash said nothing.
‘Many important people have lived out their lives at Comraich, mainly in serenity. But now we are at a loss as to what to do.’
‘That’s easy. Evacuate the bloody place!’
‘Please, Mr Ash, don’t take me for a fool. You’re fully aware that would be impossible. For many of our guests exposure would mean immediate incarceration – in many cases, for life.’
‘Is it any different here?’
‘Call Comraich a prison if you will, Mr Ash, but I doubt you’ll hear any so-called prisoner complain.’
Ash decided it was time to bring the conversation round to requesting safe passage for himself and Delphine. ‘Speaking of prisoners, Lord Edgar—’ but the old man interrupted him.
‘I’m sure by now that you’ve recognized several infamous faces. General Lukovic, for one,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘I understand he inadvertently saved your life. A stroke of luck for you.’
Only then did it strike Ash just how lucky he was still to be alive. First, he’d walked from the crashed lift almost unscathed; then in the containment area the guards had arrived just in time to prevent the patients there tearing him apart; and that morning he and Delphine had been saved from the wildcats with seconds to spare. Then there was the password to access the computer files, and how easily SANCTUM had popped into his head. He’d never believed in guardian angels, but it was as if there were something here working in his favour. Whether it was luck, or something else, somehow he felt he wasn’t entirely on his own. Anyway, if luck was on his side, he might as well push it.