Frey & McGray 04 -Loch of the Dead

  Oscar de Muriel

  * * *

  LOCH OF THE DEAD

  Contents

  1873

  1889

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part 2

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Part 3

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Follow Penguin

  By the same author

  The Strings of Murder

  A Fever of the Blood

  A Mask of Shadows

  The fourth one is for Doña Magda,

  who’s been (im)patiently waiting for it since 2016.

  And whoso bathes therein his brow

  With care or madness burning,

  Feels once again his healthful thought

  And sense of peace returning.

  John Whittier, 1877,

  on the occasion of Queen

  Victoria’s visit to Loch Maree

  1873

  28 May

  I never wanted the wee brat, thought Millie, looking down at the round, smooth face of the infant. The sway of the boat had lulled him into sleep: his chest went up and down as if following the rhythm of the waves, his chubby little fingers clasped the ragged blanket.

  I even held the herbal tea, Millie recalled. I pressed my lips against the cup and smelled its poison. I wanted to purge you out of my body, as if you were an infection.

  A tear fell on the blanket, bursting without warning.

  Millie wiped it at once. Nobody had ever seen her cry. Nobody except –

  The child stirred in her arms and let out a soft moan, perhaps woken by her sudden movement, but Millie cuddled him more tightly, rocked him and lovingly whispered, ‘There, there.’

  Where had all that come from? She had never been tender, or gentle, or sentimental. She had never played with dolls. How was it that she knew exactly what to do now? How to hold him, how to get him to sleep. Why was she feeling that painful gulp and that tearing oppression in her chest?

  ‘Don’t get too attached, lassie,’ said Mr Dailey, steering the boat in the dark. ‘He’ll be gone in a minute.’

  ‘Mind your own business, you old twat.’

  He could only laugh. ‘Aye, that’s our Millie …’

  Mr Dailey rowed on, guided by nothing but the position of the blurry moon. A thick mist had set and the outline of the ancient burial ground appeared only when they were a dozen yards away: Isle Maree was just a greyish, almost perfect dome of oak canopies, barely brighter than the surrounding night. As they approached they saw a faint glimmer, amber and steady, coming from the heart of the small island – a lantern that announced the meeting would take place as agreed. Millie suddenly felt terrified.

  The boat touched the shore softly. Mr Dailey plunged his boots into the water and pulled the rope until the prow sat firmly on the pebble beach. He offered Millie a hand she refused to take; the girl rose to her towering height and, despite her thumping heart, led the way towards the greenery. They walked past the outer line of oaks, whose thick trunks grew almost horizontally towards the water, like the stretched fingers of a pleading hand.

  Millie followed the dim light and soon the ancient tombstones began to appear, dotted in between the gnarled oaks and hollies, their edges eroded by centuries of inclement weather.

  ‘Here they come,’ somebody said. It was a male voice Millie had never heard before, but she knew that was the clergyman, the man who was about to take her son away for ever. She recognized him at once, standing next to the two familiar figures: the sleazy Calcraft, who was holding the lantern, and the elegant Mrs Minerva Koloman, her pale face like silver underneath her crimson hood.

  The priest raised his eyebrows when he saw Millie, and tilted his head slightly backward. Of course he did. Everyone reacted like that when they realized Millie was in fact a girl. Though she was inured to it, tonight the gesture made her falter.

  ‘It is all right, child,’ said the lady. ‘Come closer.’

  So she did, but Millie consciously planted herself behind a jutting gravestone, as if the moss-covered granite, which hardly reached her knees, could act as her battlement.

  ‘So you are Millie,’ said the priest. His voice was soft and friendly, but Millie hated everything about him: his kind smile, his carefully groomed hair, the relaxed fingers interlaced before his chest … the so familiar colour of his eyes.

  ‘How many lasses with bastards were you waiting for?’

  ‘Millie!’

  ‘It’s fine, Minerva,’ said the clergyman, raising an appeasing hand. ‘I wasn’t expecting this to be easy on her. May I see the child, Millie?’

  She recoiled out of instinct, clutching the little bundle closer to her. Calcraft sniggered, the lantern shaking in his hand and sending fleeting shadows all across the island.

  Mrs Koloman approached. She was slender and almost a full foot shorter than Millie, but she shepherded her young maid around the tombs with no problem.

  ‘Let us see his pretty face,’ Mrs Koloman said when they were close to the priest. She pulled back the edge of the blanket with great care, and they all envied the baby’s placid, careless sleep. Mrs Koloman sighed, looking at the surrounding graves. ‘It is sad that you last see him here, in the land of the dead.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said the priest, ‘a child is life renewed.’

  He stretched out his arms to receive the boy, but Millie took a decisive step back.

  ‘No!’ she cried, as if she’d been asked to toss the baby into the fire.

  ‘What do you –’

  ‘I’m keeping him, you hear me?’

  Calcraft sniggered again, but Mr Dailey slapped him hard on the face. ‘Show some respect, you idiot.’

  Mrs Koloman reached for Millie’s arm, but the girl pulled away. ‘Millie, you know it cannot be.’

  ‘Who says so?’ she barked back, even though she knew it was useless to protest.

  Mrs Koloman raised a hand and managed to seize Millie by the shoulder. ‘He will be well cared for, educated; he’ll want for nothing. It will be the best for him … Think of the alternative.’

  Millie felt the streams of tears rolling down her cheeks and heard herself sob. It was an awful noise. It sounded like somebody else.

  ‘Here,’ said the priest, visibly intimidated as he warily slid his hand underneath the baby.

  Millie felt the weight being lifted from her arms and again tried to step back, but Mrs Koloman held her in place with unexpected strength.

  ‘Millie, let him go.’

  The girl stooped to kiss her baby’s forehead, but just as her lips were about to touch him she decided not to. She could not have surrendered him otherwise.

  It felt as though they were tearing off a part of her body. Nothing had ever hurt like that. Not even when she was a young girl and the other children had thrown rotten things at her and called her names. She would have gone through all that a hundred times if it meant she could keep the boy.

  ‘Love is hard, my child,’ Mrs Koloman whispered, patting her on the back, about to burst into tears herself.

  The priest rocked the baby with confident arms, and the way he tucked the blanket around the boy showed he’d probably taken care of dozens of ‘orphans’.

  He looked up. ‘What shall we call him?’

  The question took the edge off Millie’s distress. She sniffed, realizing she’d never given it a thought.

  ‘Benjamin,’ she said soon enough, ‘after my late father.’

  The clergyman smiled. ‘He does look like a Benjamin.’

  Millie held on to that image. For years to come, whenever she doubted the fate of her son, she’d invoke the memory of the smiling priest and his kind words.

  ‘Mr Dailey,’ said Mrs Koloman, ‘can you take Father Thomas to your inn? We’ve arranged for a carriage to pick him up tomorrow morning. Send us the bill as usual.’

  ‘This one’s on me, Mrs Koloman,’ he answered. ‘What about Millie?’

  ‘She is coming with us. There is nothing to hide any more.’

  Millie and Mr Dailey exchanged sorry looks. He had lodged he
r at his nearby inn for the past few months, keeping her out of view whilst her state was evident. Millie had helped the man’s wife with what chores she could, and they’d spent many an evening exchanging stories by the fire. They realized now how much they’d miss each other.

  Mrs Koloman noticed. ‘We’ll keep Millie in our service,’ she said. ‘She’ll be able to visit you and Mrs Dailey often enough.’

  Mr Dailey replied with only a manly grunt, blinking tears away as he showed the priest the way to his boat. The two men said their goodbyes and very soon they were gone, but Millie did not have the heart to watch them fade into the darkness. Instead she looked down at the two cracked slabs carved with crosses before her. They said they were the resting place of an ancient king and his beloved queen, sleeping side by side for ever.

  ‘Calcraft,’ said Mrs Koloman, ‘go and prepare the boat. We’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Ma’am, there’s nothing to pre–’

  ‘Do as I say!’

  Insolent as he was, the eighteen-year-old footman would not dare defy Mr Koloman’s wife. He strode off to the northern side of the island, where the Kolomans’ boat waited, taking the lantern with him.

  As the light weakened, Millie stared at her now empty hands. Mrs Koloman took one in hers. The lady’s skin was soft and immaculate, zealously guarded from the sunlight. Millie’s hands were freckled and roughened by work.

  Slowly, as if yielding under an immense weight, Millie bent down, rested her forehead on her lady’s shoulder and wept in silence.

  ‘I know, child, I know. I’m a mother too.’

  She let Millie weep on, waiting patiently until the girl rose again, wiping her nose with her already mucky sleeve.

  ‘Here,’ said Mrs Koloman, offering an embroidered handkerchief. ‘Millie, there is something else I need to ask of you.’

  The girl just nodded, too drained to either think or object. The lady took a deep breath.

  ‘There is someone who needs your milk.’

  1889

  17 August, 5:00 a.m.

  Adolphus McGray slammed the main door open. The crack of the wood resounded in the hall like a thunderclap. Then just silence. The farmhouse was dark and deserted, like a grave.

  Only then did Adolphus feel his heart pounding and the cold sweat dripping down his forehead.

  ‘Father?’ he called. ‘Pansy?’

  No reply.

  The stillness of the place seemed jarring after his frantic ride. Adolphus walked on with faltering steps. Indeed, something was very wrong.

  ‘Where’s every–’

  A cold shriek came from the library, the most anguished howl he’d ever heard. It was his sister.

  ‘Pansy!’ he shouted, running down the corridor as the shrieks grew louder, an insane voice that drilled into his ears.

  Adolphus reached the library door and pulled the knob, but it was locked.

  ‘Pansy!’ he yelled again, banging on the door furiously. His sister let out a final, high-pitched cry, which went on and on: a shrilling, fixed note.

  Adolphus thrust himself against the door. He hit it again – one, two, three times – until the frame gave way and the lock went flying.

  Just as he entered the library Pansy’s now rasping cry started to fade, her lungs depleted of air. It took Adolphus a second to distinguish anything in the dim light, but what he saw would be scarred into his memory for the rest of his life.

  Pansy’s white summer dress was stained; dark red splattered all over her. The fifteen-year-old was on her knees in the middle of the room, her slender body in a crouch. Adolphus at first thought her injured, but then he saw the two bleeding bodies lying next to her.

  The old Mr McGray lay on the carpet, his arms bent awkwardly. The only movement around him was the blood pooling slowly from his chest.

  Behind him, a female body lay face down. Although he could not see her face, Adolphus instantly recognized his mother, but there was something shiny apparently hovering over her … And then it struck him: a fire poker had pierced the woman’s back and was sticking up like a fork in a joint of meat.

  Adolphus let out a sickened gasp. His trembling legs failed him and he had to lean on the door frame.

  Pansy started weeping, rocking backwards and forwards. Another shiny object was on her lap. It was the sharpest cleaver from the kitchen, the one that Betsy used to cut through bones. The wide blade was still dripping with his father’s blood.

  Adolphus also saw that Pansy was holding the knife with a firm grip, and then a terrible truth began to dawn on him.

  ‘Oh, Pansy …’ he whispered, tears rolling down his face. ‘Wha … what’ve ye –’

  ‘It was the Devil,’ Pansy whispered, but in a voice that was not her own. It was a rough, poisoned sound, coming from the depths of her throat.

  ‘Wha … what do you mean?’

  Suddenly the girl rose, roaring like a beast, wielding the tainted cleaver, and hurled herself towards Adolphus.

  A short step back barely saved him; the cleaver slashed the front of his coat and he felt the very tip of the blade cut his chest.

  The girl came closer, tried to stab him, and all he could do was lift his hands to block the blade. He deflected the first blows, felt the cold steel, and tried to seize her wrists, suddenly aware of the blood he was spilling. Adolphus managed to grab her but she struggled like a wild animal.

  ‘Pansy, stop it!’

  He caught a glimpse of her bloodshot eyes, which locked on his, unrecognizable, her pupils like dark wells opening into a turbulent underworld. It was less than a second amidst the frenzied fight, but that stare would never leave his memory.

  Then they heard voices.

  People were approaching, shouting the names of all the McGrays. Among them were the servants, George and Betsy, their voices terrified screeches.

  Pansy struck Adolphus hard in the stomach, bringing him to his knees, and a piercing pain in his hand forced him to let go of her. At once she stormed out of the room, shrieking as madly as before.

  Adolphus heard the shocked screams of the men who’d just arrived, and his sister’s voice echoing throughout the house as she ran haphazardly from room to room.

  Pressing against the floor to stand up, Adolphus felt as if his hand were on fire, and when he looked down he could not contain a terrified squeal.

  His fourth finger had been almost completely severed.

  Adolphus lifted his hand at once, the pain suddenly searing, and the image sent stabs of fright throughout his body: his finger flailed about, hanging by a thin shred of torn skin, and he could see the white bones surrounded by bleeding flesh.

  ‘He-help!’ he panted, squeezing his wrist and desperately trying to rise, but no one could hear him over the shouting in the other rooms.

  Still on his knees, Adolphus desperately dragged himself towards the door.

  And then he saw it.

  It was no more than a blurred look before he lost consciousness: a deformed, twisted figure moving spasmodically as it made its way towards the window.

  The Devil, he thought, with large, twisted horns and charred flesh … and then he knew he was having the dream again.

  McGray had dreamed of that ghastly night more times than he could remember, but every time it was as vivid as the real event. The sight of his dead parents, the maddening cries of his sister, the burning pain in his hand … nothing seemed to fade away, despite the years.

  It was the dread of having that dream that kept him awake most nights, even if he denied that fact to himself. He’d do his best to stay up – read, write, smoke, drink a dram or two – and after six years he’d grown accustomed to it, but he could never relinquish sleep altogether.

  Last night, for instance, he’d passed out from sheer exhaustion. He’d travelled all day in a steamer from Edinburgh to Aberdeen, and then on to the Orkney Islands, where Pansy was now secluded. He’d spent two full days travelling, eating nothing but salted herring, hard bread and thinned ale, and (something he had never confessed to anybody) putting up with unparalleled seasickness. Excellent swimmer though he was, he had never fared well on boats.

  And when McGray had finally made it to the desolate, weather-beaten island, he was simply told he was not to see his sister.

  ‘The very point of bringing the lass here is to keep her away from you!’ were the blunt words of the very heavily built head nurse, one Mrs Jennings.