‘You may recall,’ he continued softly, ‘that at one time, early in the marriage, she threw herself down the stairs at the Palace as a protest. She tried it again, some time later, and it was discovered she was pregnant. She’d had her first child and longed for another. She—’
‘I recall many people assuming Prince Harry’s red hair meant that she’d taken a lover . . . a guardsman . . .’ Ash interrupted.
Lord Edgar spluttered and clung to the arms of the chair.
‘What dreadful minds we have,’ he croaked, once his coughing settled. ‘Everybody – everybody! – seems to forget that Diana’s brother, Earl Spencer, had red hair before it turned grey. The colour was in the Spencer genes, for God’s sake!’
Despite himself, Ash grinned and held up a hand in surrender.
Lord Edgar leaned forward so that their faces were even closer and he did not have to raise his voice to be heard.
‘Please listen, and try not to interrupt again. Time is short . . . So, as I was saying, when Diana fell down the flight of stairs for the second time – this would have been in 1983 – she was eighteen weeks pregnant. The fall induced early labour. Imagine the shock. She’d told no one of the pregnancy.’
Delphine had told him that Lewis had been born at eighteen weeks. The conclusion was inescapable: Lewis – Louis – was Diana’s child!
‘But it was the baby’s condition that shocked them all – or frightened them, if you prefer,’ Lord Edgar continued.
‘Louis’ skin: so fine it’s translucent,’ said Ash.
‘It’s transparent. Let’s not prevaricate. All the baby’s internal organs could be plainly seen. Louis was a freak of nature. Can you imagine how the royal family felt about that? William and Harry have never been told, of course. Obviously Her Majesty and Prince Philip were called, but only they and the Prince of Wales were aware of all the circumstances.’
Ash opened his mouth to speak, but the Laird of Comraich stopped him with a weary, trembling hand.
‘Please! No more interruptions. I can feel myself fading and I want you, at least, to know Louis’ birthright, no matter how unsightly his condition.’
The investigator hung his head and listened.
‘Impossibly, the child wasn’t the first to suffer such a curious physical abnormality, but in the past no baby born with it had been allowed to live. There were congenital problems for the boy, naturally: brain haemorrhage and heart disease were strong possibilities. The baby weighed less than one and a half pounds. He was so delicate, they say he resembled a newborn bird. He could be held in the palm of one hand. The attending physicians advised that the baby should be allowed to die naturally, but the Queen and Prince Philip decreed that such a decision could be made only by the baby’s parents. Diana was heavily sedated, and an immediate decision was required, so the boy’s fate was left solely to his father.
‘Many things – cruel things – have been said and written about Prince Charles, a lot of them inaccurate. But I can tell you, he’s a very spiritual person, a man with soul, and deeply philosophical. He was aware of the problems the monarchy faced should the matter become public knowledge, and, of course, he knew the child would face a terribly difficult life.
‘But Charles is no murderer. The baby was placed inside an incubator to keep him warm, and a ventilator used to help him breathe. Premature and abnormal the child might be, but while there was a chance he could live, Charles’s uncompromising stance was that everything possible must be done to help his son survive.
‘When he was asked to name the boy, without hesitation he said Louis: a small tribute to his great-uncle who had been murdered by the IRA just four years earlier.’
Ash listened in awe. Delphine really hadn’t a clue who her patient and friend was.
‘Of course, this was all done secretly. The baby’s true identity was never revealed to the medical staff who managed to keep him alive.’
‘And you – when did you discover who he was?’
‘As head of Comraich, I was informed of the child’s parentage when he arrived, though of course I was sworn to secrecy. Even Sir Victor isn’t privy to the secret and never will be, unless . . .’ Lord Edgar struggled to draw in a breath, ‘unless he is chosen as the new head.’
Another hold you have on the royal family, Ash thought to himself.
‘Remarkably, the baby survived. You might even say “miraculously”.’
Another notion struck Ash. ‘Has Prince Charles ever visited his son?’
‘So far as the prince is concerned, his son is dead. Within days of his arrival we were instructed to inform him that the boy had died of complete renal failure. He agreed that the body should be cremated here. He had no wish to attend, nor would it have been wise to.’
‘Instructed by whom?’
‘By the highest authority, Mr Ash.’
Ash could see he would get no further with that line of questioning, and time was running short. ‘But Diana . . . ?’
‘Oh, she was told the baby had died within minutes of the birth. The sedatives were very strong, so strong that, when she was finally allowed to come round, she could scarcely remember the incident. Perhaps she didn’t want to remember. In any event, Diana never referred to the occasion ever again, I’m told.’
Ash was purposely blunt, angered by what he’d learned. ‘So there’s no official evidence, then, that Prince Louis exists.’
Shawcroft-Draker appraised Ash coldly. ‘There is evidence, and it’s in a deposit box in the vault of my private London bank, Coutts. Along with other items—’
Perhaps there would come a time when Ash would remember that, but at this point his thoughts were too much in turmoil to give it any particular significance. Once again, the old man swayed in his chair, his hands clutching the armrests tightly.
‘Vertigo,’ he told the investigator. ‘Just another effect of the Saxitoxin. My brain is acting strangely too. I think I’m going to a bad place. Perhaps Byrone will be waiting for me, although he was a better man than I.’
Ash knelt before Lord Edgar once more, gripping his upper arms to steady him. Christ, he thought, he’s dying in front of me.
Lord Edgar’s movements slowly began to stiffen, as if he were collecting himself. Their faces almost level, the Laird of Comraich peered at Ash with fading, watery eyes.
‘If I had known,’ he said, catching his breath, ‘I think I would have taken Byrone’s way out. It must have been more pleasant than this, don’t you think? Or I could have asked Byrone to put a bullet in my brain.’
He groaned aloud and it seemed to Ash that the shadows around them were closing in even more rapidly, becoming frenetic, feathery wisps of darkness reaching into the soft cocoon of light.
‘I . . .’
Lord Edgar Shawcroft-Draker was attempting to speak, but now his words were thin and so quiet that Ash had to put his ear to Lord Edgar’s mouth.
‘These ghosts, Mr . . . Mr Ash, those that you . . . came . . . to investigate. They have visited me before, you know. Generally . . . in my sleep, but not . . . but not always. They . . . they have shown me my future. They revealed to . . . me . . . the Hell . . . the Hell that they have come from. The same . . . Hell that waits for . . . me. And it’s ugly . . . it’s abominable, abhorrent . . . a hideous place. I was glad . . . so glad . . . you came to me tonight. You see, by telling you . . . telling you . . . these secrets, I might save . . . save myself . . . at least from some of these horrors. Do you think it . . . possible? Mr Ash? Have . . . have I redeemed myself in some . . . in some small way?’
His eyes searched Ash’s, as though he might find the answer there. Perhaps even some kind of absolution.
Ash saw the old man’s eyes losing their focus. He was fading, Ash realized, waiting only for an answer, some spark of forgiveness – from him, of all people.
‘I’m afraid, d’you see? I’m terribly afraid. Please forgive me my sins, won’t you?’
‘I’m sorry, Lord Edgar, I’m not a priest,’ he said quietl
y.
Then Lord Edgar’s head slumped forward, and the life finally left him.
Despite his revulsion for all the dead man stood for, Ash felt that he should somehow pay his respects, but he was never given the chance. From somewhere in the castle – it sounded close, it had to be on this floor – came another loud boom.
Suddenly, the fire lashed out at Ash from the hearth, the heat causing him to utter a cry of fear rather than pain. He fell to the floor and he saw that the dancing shadows were backing away, as if they too had been scorched by the unexpected torrid flames. He rolled away from the fire, but realized that it had retreated to the confines of the hearth and was burning brightly, throwing out as much warmth as it had when he’d first entered the room.
Byrone’s corpse fell to the floor with a thump, and Ash began to pick himself up. He looked towards Lord Edgar, and saw he sat upright still, but with his head resting over the low back of the armchair, his neck exposed so that his Adam’s apple protruded like a gruesome lump ready to be sliced in two, and his cheeks had sunk into deep shadows. The eyes were not fully closed, but they were dull, and the laird’s mouth had opened wide. His chair had caught alight, small fires burning along one of its arms.
As Ash staggered to his feet he heard the door to the outer room crash open. Then heavy footsteps strode across the floor with a familiar voice shouting. ‘The chapel’s on fire, your lordship. An explosion! And there has just been another in the corridor outside! We must get everybody out!’ Filling the smaller room’s doorway was the huge figure of Sir Victor Haelstrom.
Then came a sound so frightening that it made Ash momentarily shrink into himself.
It was the bellow of Haelstrom’s terrible rage.
80
When Kate McCarrick awoke she found herself already sitting up in bed, the covering blanket fallen to her waist. She wore only a sheer nightdress, but her body beneath it was layered with a fine film of perspiration.
Her eyes were open wide but unseeing in the dimness of her bedroom. It took a second or two for her consciousness to catch up with her, for her mind was momentarily blank. Then the terrors reached her again.
She’d been dreaming – no, she’d been in a nightmare. Yet as much as she concentrated, she could glimpse only brief images. Most were of David. He was in danger. He was in terrible danger. Kate raised her knees under the covers, her arms going around them, forehead resting on top. She tried to remember, but as with most dreams, this one was elusive, so that all she could capture were feelings: feelings of fear and horror.
Something bad, something vile, was happening in Comraich Castle, and David Ash was caught at its centre.
She pushed away the bedclothes and walked across to the large plate-glass window overlooking the city. She needed to see the signs of normality, the lighted windows, the night-time traffic, shadows of people walking the pavements – the testimony of life itself.
Kate was familiar with unaccountable manifestations and sensory illusions, but this sensing in her own mind was different, somehow more solid, a feeling she could almost touch. And it was because of David’s psychic gift, although he always scoffed and denied it. Yet lately – for the past few years, in fact – his repudiation of it had faltered, become less certain, as if he were finally beginning to admit to this sixth faculty, although he referred to it as a strong ‘intuition’ rather than a psychic capability.
She thought – she sensed – that his own mind was sending out signals of distress, even if he would not acknowledge it himself. There was something awful inside Comraich Castle and, frustratingly, there was nothing she could do to help him. Kate cursed herself for deciding to have an early night after the last two lengthy dinner dates she’d had; perhaps in deep unconsciousness, the subconscious had been reached, setting her dreaming of such diverse amalgams as fire and water.
Perhaps there was just one small thing she could do. Even if it would probably have little influence. She hoped her friend Gloria Standwell would not be annoyed for being disturbed at home at this time of night.
Kate reached for the phone on the bedside cabinet.
81
Haelstrom paused in the doorway for five seconds only. First he stared at David Ash, then the body of Lord Edgar Shawcroft-Draker; he ignored Byrone’s corpse altogether.
As Haelstrom bellowed, Ash had no time to recover before the dark figure was pounding towards him, huge arms stretched forward to grab the startled investigator. Ash was caught in a crushing grip and both men went flying across the room so fast and with such force that they crashed through the long French windows out onto the battlements, where the wind sweeping up from the sea tugged at their clothes and hair.
They fell, such was their impetus, and Ash took the brief moment of reprieve to roll away from the other man, whose beefy hand clasped wildly, trying to catch hold of the investigator again. But Ash was quickly on his feet while the heavy-set Haelstrom struggled to his knees, still bellowing, still scrabbling at windblown air.
The light from the full moon was bright and lit up the lengthy crenellated battlements, bathing the walkway in its clear silver glow. The wind whipped at Ash’s hair and in the distance he could see the silvery-white foam of rushing waves. It gave him a sense of how high up the flagstone walkway was and a chilled shiver skipped through him as he remembered the McKinnon family’s fate. For some reason Haelstrom appeared to be harbouring similarly murderous intentions.
He waited no longer. Haelstrom’s cumbersome body was still bent over and winded and his massive head offered a target too good to ignore. The investigator aimed a booted foot directly at it, kicking with all his might.
Haelstrom roared in pain and went staggering into the wall, fortunate not to fall through one of the open crenels. He remained hunched. Kicking was not Ash’s preferred way of fighting (in fact, he would not choose to fight at all), but he’d had no choice. Haelstrom was capable of crushing him like a bug and both opponents knew it.
If he could daze the big man sufficiently, Ash reasoned, he might just get the chance to escape. He pitched himself at Haelstrom once more and caught him on his fleshy thigh with his left boot. Haelstrom howled, but the pain seemed to spur him on rather than discourage him. He stood erect, despite the injury to his leg, and swiped his arm backwards at the investigator. The back of his big, chunky fist caught Ash on the temple, knocking him back across the walkway. He remained on his feet though, and met Haelstrom’s limping run towards him.
The two men collided midway across the flagstones, and because Haelstrom was both taller and much heavier, Ash took the worst of it. He grunted as Haelstrom sent him spinning backwards to come up flat against the wall opposite the battlements. Left breathless, he did his best to dodge Haelstrom’s next drive at him, but the big man’s fist smashed down hard into the angle between neck and collarbone. It felt like being hit with a sledgehammer and Ash tried to ignore the shocking pain by dodging round the older man and bunching his fist, punching hard into the other man’s kidneys. It was a good blow, a telling blow, and Haelstrom arched backwards, giving Ash another opportunity to strike.
He drove his fist into Haelstrom’s massive head, striking a cheekbone and almost breaking his own knuckles. He winced and stepped back to regroup, sucking at his bruised knuckles and tasting blood – his own blood – while Haelstrom staggered, still on his feet.
The big man, his features curled into a sneer, held out his massive arms, curved like a Sumo wrestler’s, legs apart, feet firmly planted, as if ready to force his opponent out of the dohyō. There was no doubt in Ash’s mind that the boundary of the hypothetical circle extended over the edge of the battlements and he took up a crouched defensive position. He considered making a run for it, but his left leg, raked the previous day by a wildcat’s claws, was now throbbing painfully; besides, Haelstrom’s bulk took up almost the whole width of the walkway.
His opponent began to close in. Soon, he would make his rush. Ash feinted one way and then the other, but his opp
onent was ready each time. On the third attempt, the investigator tried a different tack: he deliberately ran at Haelstrom, head lowered to smash directly into the surprised man’s stomach. Haelstrom staggered back a few feet, but that was it. All Ash had done was put himself in reach.
Ash suddenly felt his feet leave the ground as Haelstrom crushed the breath from him and lifted the helpless investigator towards the outer wall. He thought his spine might break at any moment and he wheezed as he tried to draw in more air. It was hopeless: the other man was too powerful and his grip was like steel, clamping his arms tight to his sides. He felt a sudden jarring as his back and his head hit the wall. Haelstrom abruptly changed position and grasped Ash’s lapels, drawing him towards the edge, and Ash suddenly found his head and shoulders were hanging over empty space, the wind rushing up to meet him from the base of the cliff six hundred feet below.
Oddly, he was struck by how clearly he could hear the waves dash themselves against the rocky shoreline; it was as though all his senses had become more acute, sharpened, and every detail of Haelstrom’s queerly featured face, twisted in a snarl above him, stood out.
Was this what it was like for everyone who died violently? Was everything suddenly rendered in high definition and perfect surround sound? He could even see the pores in his opponent’s face in the strong moonlight, the hairs inside the man’s small crooked nose, the bubbles of spittle on his lips.
Then Ash felt his body being tilted further over the foaming abyss, tipping beyond the point of no return.
He prepared himself to die.
82
As Kevin Babbage and Rachael Krantz descended the stone stairway to the dungeons, the smell and the floating dust assailed their nostrils. The security chief was beginning began to regret his decision to accompany the senior nurse on the expedition. Although there’d always been a stench of excrement, urine and general body odour coming from the cells, it had never reeked as badly as this. Beside him, Krantz reached out to touch the wall to steady herself, for the light was bad here and the steps were worn from centuries of use. Her hand came away wet with slime and she brushed her fingers against her white uniform.