fter another twelve hours I disembarked in Aberdeen, into air so frigid that my breath threw white clouds ahead of me, and I shivered uncontrollably in my light woollen suit. I was dressed, after all, for the South of France, and had packed sparsely for only a couple of days in a distinctly different climate.
I sought relief and hired a small room at an inn not far from the station. But my intended chamber had only just been vacated and as I waited, I took a seat in the inn’s crowded pub. A group of locals across the room who were singing to a fiddle were perhaps more irritating than picturesque. I was in no mood for festivity but recalled Holmes’s request to gather what gossip I could.
Soon a robust young serving girl brought me a steaming bowl of the local venison stew and I attempted unsuccessfully to engage a table of nearby diners on the subject of the McLarens. A few locals eyed me suspiciously, and laughed when I asked them about Braedern.
As my stomach filled and my equilibrium returned, I decided to find a clothing shop and provision myself with attire more suitable to the climate. Perhaps I would have better luck engaging with someone in the shop.
The innkeeper had churlishly refused to store my valise, and so I ventured, weighed down by the case, out into the streets. Outside it seemed midnight, though it was now just late afternoon. Gaslights along the street were yellow orbs in the swirling darkness, the wind damp from the ocean. A light snow was falling, and the pavements, while swept free of snow, were dangerously icy.
In due course I found a small haberdashery. The proprietor had just turned his sign and was locking the door. I approached and put my face up to the glass, and smiled at him hopefully.
The man, sharp faced and wary, with a smartly trimmed moustache and sideburns but a wild fury of red hair sprouting from the top of his head, mouthed the word ‘Nae!’ With a flick of his wrist, he indicated I should be about my business. I gestured in supplication. Getting no response, I pulled out a gold sovereign.
He immediately unlocked the door and beckoned me in. I explained that I was a traveller, called suddenly to the Highlands.
‘Sassenach!’ he said in mock disgust. ‘You’ll nae be takin’ my time for naught. Is that all ye have, then?’ he indicated my lightweight suit and thin, travelling mackintosh. ‘What were ye thinking, man?’
‘I came from the South of France, and had nae, I mean no, time to pack,’ I explained, immediately regretting my volubility. No one need know the details of my business.
The proprietor, who soon introduced himself as MacAuliffe, appraised me with the practised eye of the experienced clothier. ‘A winter suit. An ulster. Detachable cape. Some gaiters, a hat, and some boots, I would wager. Gloves. Have you nae warm undergarments? Two sets in wool, then. A warm knit. Not even a scarf, man?’
‘None,’ said I.
He quickly took my measurements and bustled around the shop gathering an array of ready-to-wear clothing. In three quarters of an hour, under his expert eye, I found myself kitted out with a remarkably flattering and comfortable set of garments, muted green and brown tweeds, a cloud soft cashmere cravat, and a very handsome shooting cap which would become my favourite ever after. In spite of our inauspicious start, this visit had turned out well. I was filled with renewed cheer.
As I looked over the bill, I reflected that the man’s careful, skilled attention and relaxed manner might indicate an open door.
‘I am off tomorrow to the Castle Braedern,’ said I. ‘Do you know it?’
He stiffened. ‘Ye’ve been invited?’ he asked.
‘A shooting party,’ I added lamely. ‘This weekend. I understand they are good people there.’
The man stared at me. ‘Shooting, you say? In this weather? And sae urgent ye canna pack your bag properly?’
‘Well, the invitation came late. And I am to see to one of the ladies there. I am a medical man as well.’ Good God, what had prompted me to say all this?
MacAuliffe stood back and stared at me with eyes gone bright with suspicion, and something else. Fear?
‘Ye had better watch yourself, Sassenach. ’Tis not a place for a casual visit. There’s nae one of us in this city who would be sleeping there of our own accord.’
I said nothing but reached down to unlatch my valise and retrieve the sovereigns.
‘Unless ye perhaps be a hunter of ghaists?’ he added.
Ghaists? ‘Do you mean ghosts, sir?’ I wondered. I was definitely no longer in London.
‘Aye. Are you fully kitted out, man? I suggest one thing mair – a good hunting knife, like this one here.’
He held one out, and I could see immediately it was no ordinary knife. It was foldable, a jack-knife, but larger than usual. It had a distinctive handle of horn, inlaid with a silver Celtic design and an amber jewel in the centre. Its keen blade gleamed in the gaslight, and was sharp from the tip back an inch or so, then serrated. An unusual and beautifully crafted item. But I did not anticipate an immediate use for it.
‘No, thank you,’ said I. Buried deep in my bag was my revolver, and this I deemed sufficient protection. ‘What did you mean, ghosts?’
‘Many a tale is tellt about Braedern. The family is cursed, some say. A bairn vanished there long ago. A girl of only two or three. And the lady of the house, ne’er the same after that. ’Till she, too, died. A sad, sad, story.’
‘What was the lady’s name? I should hate to put a foot wrong.’
‘You will be finding out soon enough. But take heed. The ghaists, we understaun, are nae so friendly.’
‘Very well, I thank you, sir, for the excellent provisions here.’
‘Are ye sure about the knife, man? You’re gaeing into the Highlands after all. It can be useful, in sae many ways. And look here, it folds, sae nice and neat.’ He folded the knife in on itself. It was now compact enough for a pocket.
‘It is almost as though you would like to be rid of it!’ I laughed.
His face darkened. ‘What makes you say that?’
I shrugged. ‘Nothing really. But I can’t take it, I have spent enough. Thank you.’
He shrugged and busied himself with wrapping up my purchases in brown paper and securing them with string. ‘The distillery, at least, will be a fine destination. A remarkable whisky, McLaren Top. And the laird has made even the unwelcome welcome there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He has hired the unhirable, has the laird. Men, some of them crippled, missing limbs, blinded, half-witted, harmed by the wars, by accident, by life. He gies them help, and puts them to work in the distillery, each to his own ability. It is a fine thing he does.’
‘That sounds very charitable.’
‘Aye, that it is. And we in Aberdeen are grateful. Ach, these desperate men! Some went to war and returned to find their tenancies gone, victims of the clearances, and sheep grazing now where once they tended fields. What the landlords didnae realize was the anger. A whole population thrown away like rubbish. Now so many up to nae good with now’t to dream of and work for. It has brought madness into the land.’
‘So these are clearance victims who work the distillery? People whose land was taken?’
‘More are war veterans, as I said. Some with both war and clearance to mar their lives. But the laird has given, some say eighty men, work and hope. And the whisky, ’tis the finest in the land, if ye go by what is written.’
‘I shall be sure to sample it.’
He completed wrapping my clothes into a neat package tied up with string. ‘But hear me, man, be careful there, if you value your safety.’
I nodded. ‘Thank you. I will be off then!’
Later, as I finally settled in my little room above the pub, I stumbled about in the near darkness, as only one meagre candle had been furnished for my use in this rustic lodging. I opened my package to remove and store my new things in my valise, and to lay out warm clothes for the morning.
There, buried between the new woollens and tweeds something glinted in the dim light. I reached in and pulled it out.
It was the shiny steel edge of the folded hunting knife I had been offered earlier by MacAuliffe.
But why? I took it up and snapped open the blade, holding it up to the light of that single candle. It was indeed a beauty, the delicate design at odds with the fearsome blade, and I wondered at the generosity of the gift.
I looked closer. The candle guttered and the flickering light reflected on the polished steel, giving a sensation of movement. I shivered, and blinked my eyes to clear the vision.
I must have been more exhausted than I had realized. Holmes would surely have laughed had he been with me. I quickly folded the knife and hid it in my valise.
Collapsing on the bed, I fell into a heavy sleep immediately. I dreamed I was King Arthur and before me was Excalibur, though looking like my new jack-knife, and buried in the stone. I grasped it with two hands and pulled. Try as I might, the blade would not come free.