n route back to Braedern, the perfectly reproduced photograph in hand, I pondered the words of Gordon Jennings. Holmes had fallen under suspicion for murder once since I had known him, when a young policeman challenged how he could possibly know the movements of the killer in a certain blood-spattered room – unless he were the murderer himself. Fortunately an intervention by the better-informed Inspector Lestrade had prevailed, but not without some difficulty.
But what had transpired at Camford? In any case, I could not travel to Atholmere just then. Holmes had made it clear that the photograph was an urgent priority, although I was not sure why.
By the time I had taken the train to Aberdeen, and another to Ballater, then hired a carriage, the afternoon darkness had begun to descend around the forlorn castle. The laird’s deadline had been by noon this very day for Holmes to have solved the case. While Holmes was not in the habit of bowing to such ultimatums, I wondered if the laird’s threat carried any weight, and what progress my friend had made in my absence.
I proceeded to Holmes’s room, and finding the door locked, knocked once. No answer. I knocked again ‘Ye will nae find him there,’ called Mungo, the old servant. He was standing at the other end of the hall, towels and linens in his arms.
‘Where is he, then?’
‘Do not know. Hiding, is my guess. He got a grand fright last night. And the laird is furious that he has had no report on Mr Holmes’s work.’
‘What do you mean a fright?’
‘I think he saw a ghost. End of the hall here, just as I warned ye about. The Lady Elizabeth. She is not a friendly ghost. I am fairly certain, Doctor, that he was frighted near out of his wits.’ Mungo seemed to enjoy the thought.
‘Mr Holmes does not believe in ghosts, Mungo,’ said I. ‘Nor does he frighten easily. On whose account do you relate this tale?’
‘We all heard the noises.’
‘What noises?’
‘The ghostly cries. Mr Holmes shouting.’
‘And did you not run to see what it was?’
‘Nary a soul will venture into this hallway at that hour, Dr Watson. I have told ye.’
‘That is outrageous. Unlock this door for me, at once.’
The man hesitated, then complied.
The bed had not been slept in. But neither was there any sign of a struggle or mischief of any kind. ‘Has anyone seen Mr Holmes since the events of last night?’
Mungo then said that Holmes had been seen talking to Isla McLaren in the morning. After a half an hour of searching the castle, I discovered Mrs McLaren in the library, seated on the sofa with a book. She looked up and smiled.
‘Ah, at last. Close the door behind you, Doctor,’ said she, calmly. In answer to my questions she replied that she understood Holmes had continued his investigations in and around the distillery and that he had last been seen several hours before. ‘I hear there was some noise near your rooms last night. In the morning Mr Holmes questioned me closely about the late Lady McLaren’s ghost, which is said to haunt that area. We discussed this, you must recall? He would not go so far as to say he had seen this ghost but that is what I surmised.’ Mrs McLaren seemed almost amused as she related this information.
‘Mr Holmes does not believe in ghosts,’ said I.
She smiled in a way that irritated me in its complacency. ‘Well, to be truthful, he seemed more angry about whatever transpired there last night than anything else.’
‘Where is he now?’
The lady shrugged. She put down her book and rose. ‘I do not know. The laird was looking for him earlier. I believe Mr Holmes said something about going into town. Shall we ask the servants?’
‘Which town?’
‘Ballater is the nearest. Perhaps he wished to send a cable. He received several last night.’
‘One was from me. I am glad he received it.’
‘Well, that is all, Dr Watson. I do not know where he is at present.’
There was a sudden commotion outside the room. The library doors were flung open and in rushed the groundsman, Ualan Moray, wet from the snow, and wild with panic.
‘Dr Watson. Thank God!’ He gasped and clutched his side, trying to breathe. ‘Come at once! My missing son, Iain! Mr Holmes! The icehouse!’
‘What icehouse?’ said I.
‘Down by the garden wall. Not used in winter,’ said Isla McLaren, coming forward. ‘Mr Moray, what has happened?’
The old man was out of breath and could barely string his words together. ‘Mr Holmes – in danger – come!’
‘Bring our coats to the Great Hall. Now!’ cried the lady, and a servant dashed off. We both grasped Moray by an arm and took off at a run in that same direction. As we bundled into our coats in the Great Hall, we pressed Moray for more.
‘My youngest, Calum, found Iain’s knapsack buried in the snow down there this morning. I went and found the place unlocked but naebody there, so I brought Mr Holmes.’
‘Unlocked, you say?’ said Isla in alarm.
The servants brought the three of us lanterns and we dashed outside into freezing cold. The snow was coming down in a blizzard now and the greyish white swirls lit by our feeble lanterns disappeared into the darkness. ‘Where is he now?’ I cried. ‘You said danger!’
Ualan Moray pointed down the hill in the direction of the small mound I had noted earlier. ‘He is in the pit. The ladder is gone. Hurry!’
I had heard of icehouses on grand estates but never had occasion to enter one. They had deep caverns some several storeys deep in which ice was stored for summer use. They could be dangerous in the extreme.
‘My God, Ualan!’ said Isla. She took off down the hill and we slogged after her.
As we ran slipping and sliding down the incline, our voices threw clouds into the frigid air.
‘Why did he go into the pit?’ Mrs McLaren asked.
‘Looking for my boy. He wanted mair light. I went to fetch a second lantern.’
‘How long has he been in the ice?’ I cried.
Next to me, Isla slid in the snow and she clutched my arm to keep from falling as we scrambled forward down the icy slope.
‘Nae mair than twenty minutes,’ said the old man.
The mound was some two hundred yards away. The air was so cold it seared my lungs with every breath. The new snow was powder and we slid and sunk in to our knees. Still we stumbled, sliding and unsteady. ‘Mrs McLaren, you told me he went into town,’ said I.
‘That is what he told me!’ she exclaimed. Was she lying? I glanced at her and nearly slipped on a tree stump, tumbling forward into a drift. The lady went down with me and one of the lanterns went out.
In a moment we were back on our feet, relit the lantern, and pressed on, panting with the exertion. The icy air tore into my chest in waves of pain. We half ran, half tumbled and slid the last yards, at last arriving at the low white mound like a berm that projected up from the ground near the garden wall. We followed Moray to the other side of it, not visible from the castle.
From this side it was clear the small mound was a structure, like a child’s playhouse, But the ‘house’ was sunk strangely into the earth, buried up to its eaves, with ‘windows’ which were opaque, and presumably just for effect, barely showing at the bottom. The door had three locks but all were open and the door stood ajar, the snow heavily trampled in front of it.
Moray tugged open the heavy door and we entered.
All was dark within, and I felt a chill even colder than the snow. Moray held his lantern aloft. Just visible was a concrete floor, and in the centre a deep, black pit, ten feet across. I moved to the edge and peered into the unfathomable depths. ‘Holmes? Holmes!’ I shouted.
There was no reply. My chest went tight. No sign of a lantern. His must have gone out.
‘How deep is this?’ I asked.
‘Two storeys. But there will be ten feet of ice in there now.’
I looked frantically around for a ladder or any form of access. Mrs McLaren searched as well. There was nothing in the pit, nor on the walls.
‘Where was the ladder when you left?’ said I.
‘Fastened to the edge. Here.’ Moray indicated the strong hooks on the inside of the pit. ‘Where it always rests.’
‘Someone must have come in and taken it,’ said the lady. She turned to Moray. ‘You left the door unlocked?’
‘Aye.’ His voice caught in a sob.
I continued to stare down into the black chasm. ‘Holmes?’ I shouted again down into the void. There was no response. Where was he? Where was the light he had brought down with him?
‘Was this here when you left?’ asked Mrs McLaren. I turned to see her pointing to a large bucket. I had not noticed it before. It was empty, and near the edge of the pit.
Ualan Moray turned to it in surprise. ‘No.’
A wavering, faint voice suddenly drifted up from below. ‘Watson? Is that you?’
‘Holmes!’ A thrill of relief came over me.
‘Bit chilly,’ came the weakened voice.
‘We are coming Holmes!’ I shouted. ‘Keep faith!’
I turned to the others. ‘Moray, fetch a rope. And people to help. Quick, man. His life depends on it.’ Moray took off at a run. I moved back to the edge of the pit. ‘Holmes? Holmes? Can you hear me? The ladder was taken. Moray has gone for help. Are you all right?’
‘I have found two bodies, Watson. Fiona is one. I cannot be sure of the second. But—’
‘My God,’ said Mrs McLaren.
‘Are you all right?’ I called down again.
Nothing.
‘Holmes?’
‘I shall get more help,’ cried Isla McLaren, moving towards the door. ‘In case Moray fails.’
‘Be careful. There is treachery about.’
She shook her head as if I were foolish for saying so, and left at a run.
Alone in the chamber, I took Moray’s single lantern and shone it around, searching for something, anything, to reach Holmes. There was nothing. I returned to the edge of the pit. I felt for my gun, and then remembered I had left it with Holmes.
‘Holmes, try to keep talking.’
There was a long silence.
‘Can you speak? Talk to me.’ When a person freezes to death, sleep usually precedes it.
‘Tea. Nice cup of,’ came the weak voice.
‘Very good idea. Holmes?’ I had to keep him talking. ‘I had a bit of an adventure in Edinburgh. I want to tell you about it.’
‘Tell—’
‘I have the picture. It is not Donal McLaren.’
‘Ah—’
‘But there is more, Holmes.’ A second or two passed. ‘Holmes?’
Silence.
‘Keep talking, Holmes. It was a piquant tale,’ I said. There was no reply. ‘Holmes? A fascinating tale. Are you curious? Can you hear me?’
Silence for several seconds. Then at last, his voice, weaker than before.
‘Bucket of water. Someone threw—’
Good God, he had been doused in water. The same person who had taken the ladder must have done this as well. Holmes’s clothes would be frozen solid. It was a miracle he was still alive. But he would not be for long if he could not be retrieved. I was torn. Would one or both of the others succeed in getting help in time? I knew only one thing. He could not be left here alone.