Chapter Nine

 

Craig Manor

 

Hiram was eager to get back to Dunbar and teach these witches a lesson they would not forget in a hurry. Bernard was more interested in research and planning and actually had little belief in witches or witchcraft. He reasoned that something more sinister was afoot. The two spent long hours discussing the probabilities and possibilities of the likely coven and how they have operated over the past centuries. In any case it would be too late to rescue Barbara, only revenge remained.

After a week of rest and recuperation Hammy made his mind up that he was going back to Scotland. His eyes were almost healed, just a few ugly black blotches around the edges. Bernard was against it, he wanted to investigate the patrons further. Hammy felt adamant, with or without Bernard’s help he was going to Dunbar Common to confront the laird, if there was such a person, or the witches. Bernard agreed reluctantly to go with him, mostly because he had concerns about his car. Hiram’s track record left quite a lot to be desired as far as transportation was concerned.

They started early in the morning of the following Wednesday, with the intention of returning the next morning, depending upon what happened. After two rest and meal stops, they arrived in Craig at one fifteen in the afternoon. The car pulled up outside the Seven Suitors Arms.

“Do you feel anything?” Bernard whispered.

“No. Should I?”

“If they or it knows you are here, would they not pressure you mentally as before?”

Hiram thought for a second. “No. They think I’m dead. Their last trick saw me falling over the edge of the cliff. This time we won’t give them any warning. I won’t tell the vicar where we are. I figure he has something to do with all of this.”

“You think he is involved in skulduggery?”

“Sure, why not.”

“Very well,” Bernard said. “I’ll drive you to the house, leave you there and do a little exploring of my own. When should I call back for you or would you prefer I wait?”

Hiram sat thoughtful for a moment. He had not actually planned what to do. “Where will you go?”

“Oh! I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll have a look at the church and that famous tomb, the stop fire. I brought along some toys to play with.”

Hiram looked at his brand new watch and thought for a moment or two. “Well,” he said at length, “drop me off at the house then pick me up at three thirty, that’ll give me two hours to sort them witches out. I guess I can always walk to the church, if that’s where you’ll be.”

“You know, if you fail, there’s nothing I can do to help you. My mind is not as strong as yours.”

“Their only weapon is fear, mental pressure. I think I can handle it.” Hammy got out of the car and walked round to the passenger side.

Bernard took over the wheel. “So where is this place?”

“Over there, see that road beside the graveyard. Well, that leads to the house way over that hill and through the trees.”

The prof. started the engine and pulled the car across the road. The trail was dusty and looked unused. Soon they were over the hill and heading towards the trees. The tops of the chimneys were visible, nestling above the trees. In moments they reached the clearing where the driveway circled a dilapidated fountain.

“The house don’t look so scary this time,” Hammy said. “How do you feel, prof. – not affecting you, is it?”

“Fine, and you?”

“No problem. Remember, pick me up at three thirty on the dot.” He climbed out of the car and slammed the door.

Instead of driving away Bernard waited to see what would transpire. Hiram walked to the front door and pulled the bell rope. After only a few moments the door opened. A very old-looking man with white hair and wearing a kilt of dark green with red stripes stood in the doorway. He was carrying a silver-handled walking stick.

“Yes?” he questioned with staring eyes.

“I’m Hiram Kawalski.”

“So?”

“I want to see the Lord of Craigai.”

The old man smiled. “And what business would you be having with the laird?” he said with only a gentle hint of Scottish in his accent.

“It’s personal. I want … I want … well, I’d rather talk to him alone if you don’t mind.”

“I see,” the old man said. “Would you please come this way?” He admitted Hiram, closed the door and then walked slowly through the lavish hallway with its suits of armour and weapons of old. He entered a large room at the end of the hall that was filled with beautiful antique furniture, mostly from the Victorian era. “Take a seat, won’t you.”

Hiram sat, his eyes searching the room for any clues that may assist him. Nothing looked feminine; the place was quite plain and obviously masculine.

“Well?” he said, finally staring at the old man.

“Well, indeed. What is it that you want to see me about?”

“You?” Hiram said with eyes wide. “You’re the laird?”

“Aye, that I am. You said you had something personal to discuss. Then should you not begin to discuss it?”

“You’re the Lord of Craigai?”

“No. There is no such a person. I am the Earl of Craig. Lord Spalding of the Murray Clan. I am the Laird of Craig. There is no Craigai. Now, what is it that you wish to discuss with me, young man?”

Hiram was shocked, stunned for a moment. Nothing was as he expected it to be. There were no witches running around, no bodies or coffins and no black magic regalia. The inside of the house looked nothing like his dream.

“I, er … I am ...” he stuttered, searching for the right words. “I am looking for my girlfriend, my fiancée.”

The old man blinked a couple of times then lowered himself down into one of the chairs. “And you are thinking maybe that I know of this woman’s whereabouts, perhaps?”

“That’s why I came.” He took off his sunglasses, exposing his black eyes.

“My word!” the laird said. “Have you been fighting, young man?”

“No, I was pushed off the cliff at Craigai Castle.”

The laird raised his eyebrows, “My word, that is very high. I am surprised that you could survive such a fall and with only black eyes. There are terrible and dangerous rocks at the bottom. How did you survive?”

“You should know. You’re the cause.”

The old man was really surprised, his eyes opened wide. “In what way am I responsible for this heinous deed?”

“Oh, come on. Stop pretending. You know what’s going on around here; you’re right in the centre of it all.”

The laird sucked his front teeth thoughtfully for a few seconds then said slowly, “I am trying to comprehend your direction of thought, but it eludes me. Could you be more precise?”

“You and that coven of witches rule this area. You pressure the minds of people and make human sacrifices.”

The laird stared hard at Hiram. “Are you an escapee from somewhere, perhaps?”

“The last time I came here something pressured my mind so hard that it put me out, completely unconscious. When I awoke I was back in bed at my hotel and my memory was blank. But I got it all back. My mind is too strong for you.”

“Indeed, young man. This is supposed to be my fault?” The laird quizzed.

“You know it is. Then I was forced off the cliff by your imaginary giant spiders. I was supposed to die, but I’m a skydiver. I survived because I know how to fall.”

“My word. I think that you must have landed on your head, young man,” the laird said scoffingly. “Nothing you say makes any sense at all. Your reasoning is … perhaps I should say your lack of reasoning is tantamount to insanity.”

“If I’m so very wrong, why haven’t you thrown me out? Surely you should be afraid of a loony.”

Again the laird smiled. “If I am what you say, why would I allow you here in the first place?”

“Curiosity. You just want to get a close-up view.”

“My word! That’s the first thing you have said that makes any sense at all. But let’s pretend that I am this terrible person you say I am, then what? Perhaps you intend me harm?”

“Well,” Hiram said, grasping at straws. “Well, I would tell you to give my girl back to me and leave us alone. I have enough evidence to call the police in.”

“My word! young man. First, I do not have your girl. Secondly, I have no reason to harm you or anyone else. Thirdly, I think you’re in need of help – I would suggest psychiatric help.”

Hammy stared at the old man; he seemed so honest and true. “Then you’re not Jeffrey DeScagmore?”

The old man laughed quite heartily, tears trickling down his face. “You have been talking to that lunatic Jock Willox.”

“What d’ya’ mean, lunatic?”

“Jock Willox has for years had a bee in his bonnet about this Jeffrey DeScagmore character. You know that he’s been in jail several times? They doo say he was accused of murder. In that case it was a young woman he killed.”

Again Hammy’s mind was thrown into a spin. Just who was telling the truth and who was lying? Could all this trouble have originated from Jock?

The laird could see the confusion on Hammy’s face. He watched as the information began to sort itself out in Hiram’s brain.

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

“I do not know,” the laird said. “Let us examine your story. You say that I pushed you off the cliff after rendering you unconscious and put you to bed?”

“Well, yes.”

“My word! your train of thought is confused. If it were true, why did I not just kill you when you were unconscious and completely in my power?”

Hiram sat thoughtful for a few seconds. In his rashness he had completely overlooked that possibility. “But it has to be either you or those witches in this house.”

The laird snickered. “Tut-tut. If I were not having so much fun I would call the constable and have you arrested. Instead I shall invite you to tea. Would you do me the honour?”

“No,” Hiram hurriedly breathed. “I’ve got to leave. One of us is mad.”

“I assure you, you are safe here. There are no witches and I don’t think we’ve eaten human meat in several centuries.”

“The postmaster said that –” Hiram began but was rudely interrupted.

“My word. You have been around. You’ve been talking to the Vicar of St Mary’s. The Reverend Goodwall.”

“Well, yes,” Hammy said. “How did you know?”

The laird stood up, walked over to the fireplace and pulled a bell cord. Slowly he walked back. “We’ll have tea in here,” he said, seating himself at the table. “Mr Goodwall, James Goodwall, was the vicar here at St Andrew’s. That’s my church; it’s been in the family for hundreds of years. I had to fire him, poor fellow. He became obsessed by this silly legend of Morag o’ Doom. You know of course that there is no such person and never was.”

A servant almost as old as the laird walked into the room carrying a tray filled with the accoutrements of tea. She silently placed it on the table and without a word walked out of the room again. Hiram was loath to take anything from the aged Laird of Craig.

“Not for me, thanks, it’ll spoil my dinner,” he said.

Ignoring Hiram’s denial, the laird poured two cups of tea and milked and sugared them both. He handed Hiram one and resumed his story.

“You see, James Goodwall became totally unreliable, dangerous in fact. I do have a reputation to guard. I am the Laird of Craig you know, people look up to me.”

“So why does he live just opposite the church?”

“Well, he had a very nasty motor accident. The man became unemployable as the Church of Scotland defrocked him. Some hush-hush scandal. I gave him the job of Postmaster in my post office. I felt responsible for his troubles.”

“You mean he’s as mad as Jock Willox?”

“My word! you’re blunt. I would not put it that way. Suffice it to say that they are both deluded by the same myth but from different points of view. Before you jump to any conclusions, I would like to tell you the real story, the truth.”

“I’d like to hear it.” Hammy took a sip of his tea.

“Well, Jeffrey DeScagmore was the Laird o’ Craigai. He married the most beautiful woman in all of Britain, Morag of Doomray. When Jeffrey died, he died childless. He was also the end of the line, there were no more DeScagmores. You have to realize that Morag was still young, beautiful and very cunning and had no desires to be deprived. That is when she was pursued by the seven suitors. Being cunning, clever and totally ruthless, Morag married each one and murdered each in turn.

“She married and murdered in a very special order, nothing was haphazard about Morag. Nothing was left to chance. Her purpose was as it always was, to be and to remain the Lady of the Earldom. She married, despised and murdered Spalding last. You see, he was a very distant heir of DeScagmore. So you see, she not only became the owner of the castle again, but also became the largest landowner for miles around. It was then that the castle was burned to the ground – whether by accident or design, no one will ever know.”

“So far that’s what Jock Willox told me.”

“Indeed. To continue, temporarily she lived in the Spalding house, but to her it was just a shack – twenty-eight rooms were not enough. She had this house designed and built – one hundred and fourteen rooms, if you count the bathrooms and toilets. Though they hadn’t indoor plumbing in those days. Now I’m very sorry if I have dispelled your belief in ghosties and things, but that is the historical and documented truth.”

Hammy put his empty cup down. “Then where’s she buried?”

“Ah! now there you have caught me out. She never was and neither was her husband, that is Jeffrey DeScagmore. When the old fellow died she had him cremated and his ashes scattered on the ocean below Craigai Castle. If you care to check the records you will find that the very same thing happened to her and in the very same place.”

Hammy was shocked and alarmed at the fool he had made of himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I am very sorry. I was scared and annoyed. I was sure that you, well not you, but this house was the centre of all my troubles.”

“If you have been talking to Jock Willox and James Goodwall, then I forgive you. Both of them are fools and spread very bad stories about the Laird o’ Craigai Castle. For that matter Morag, too. Though she was rather a bad girl.”

“I was convinced because the last thing my girl said to me was that she was coming up here to the house,” Hammy said with a puzzled expression on his face. “She also said she was going to see Jock Willox.”

“Were there two of them?”

“Two of them? Yes, yes. Barbara was travelling with a friend.”

“It would be three or four weeks ago?” the laird said.

“Yes, yes, it was.”

“My word, but they were here. I remember. That day I was away... but my manservant told me that they were here, though I did not remember any names if ever I knew them. They must have disappeared after visiting this house.”

“Then it has to be that bastard Jock Willox,” Hammy said, jumping to another unfounded conclusion.

“Well, I am very sorry that you have lost her, but I’m sure Mr Willox would not have harmed her. Would you like some more tea?”

“Oh, no, thanks. I’ll have to be going.”

“Well,” the laird said, “would you like a quick tour of the house? I would enjoy showing you. We seldom get anybody visiting these days.”

Hiram looked at his watch. “Sure, I’d love it, I’ve got time.”

The house was a living museum with paintings of all the illustrious ancestors. They even had a painting of the fabled Morag. When Hiram saw the picture he stopped. It was without doubt the most magnificent painting he had ever seen. The woman looked real – her beauty transcended the ages and literally overwhelmed the onlooker. Hiram stood with his mouth open as he stared her straight in the eyes.

“Now you see why the suitors could not resist her,” the laird said. “What normal man could?”

“Wow,” was the only reply.

“Indeed, summed up in one Americanism.”

“I’m Canadian.”

Little else in the house took Hiram’s attention. The furniture and bric-a-brac were all historically important, but not something that interested Hiram.

“Would you like to see the Laird o’ Craigai Castle?” the lord asked.

Hammy thought he meant another painting. “Sure, I’d love to.”

“This way,” the lord said, leading.

They walked down a long corridor until they came to a rather musty-smelling kitchen-like room, which had an old wood stove, polished black. A bare wood table and cupboards of knotted pine completed the ensemble. The floor was made of individual flagstones. Against one wall was a large concrete plinth of about 2 metres square. On the plinth sat a huge, shiny black rock with smooth, rounded edges.

“Meet the Laird o’ Craigai,” the old man said, waving his hand in the direction of the rock.

“But it’s just a boulder.” Hammy walked over to the huge stone and felt its smoothness. It felt warm, unlike what you would expect from a piece of rock.

“It’s no just a boulder. It’s the laird,” the old man said with a smile.

“This is Jeffrey DeScagmore?” Hammy quizzed.

“Well, it depends on your point of view. Did you not know that a meteor came crashing down into the sea just off the old castle in AD 1535?”

“Sure, Jock Willox mentioned it, but I thought the date was 1640.”

“Well, this is that meteor. It was christened the Laird o’ Craigai by Jeffrey DeScagmore himself.”

Hammy felt good, the rock seemed to generate peace and tranquillity – its smoothness felt comforting. The feeling was very like the PXI device of Professor Nightingale’s.

“It makes you feel good,” he said. “I can see why you keep it.”

“That it does, that it does. Do you still think that there are witches hereabouts?”

Hammy laughed. “No, I’m very sorry for the way I came into this house. I cannot begin to apologize enough for my stupidity.”

The lord smiled, “I took no offence. Come, your friend is awaiting your safe return.”

Reluctantly, Hammy left the shiny rock and followed the old man all the way back to the front door.

“Thank you, sir,” Hammy said at the door. “I truly am sorry for any accusations I made.”

“You are most welcome, young man. Come and visit whenever you feel the need.”

The two shook hands and the old man retreated, closing the door behind him. Bernard’s car was parked only 10 metres from the front door. Hammy quickly covered the distance; he felt good in himself, almost refreshed. For the first time in the Dunbar area, he felt uplifted. Bernard was crouching down on the passenger seat as if trying not to be seen. Hiram walked round to the driver’s side and climbed in.

“What are you doing, Bernard?”

“Drive, just drive. Please drive.”

“What’s the hurry, prof?” He noticed that the professor was wearing the PXI. “What’s going on?”

“Drive, for God’s sake, drive. Go, now, quickly!”

Hammy started the engine and began to drive the vehicle away from the house and towards the church over the other side of the hill.

“Okay, now we are moving, are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“Put your foot down, Hammy, don’t hang around. When you get to the main road turn right, south, and go like hell. The power will diminish on the inverse square law,” the professor said, keeping his head down.

“I wish you would speak English, Bernie. What are you doing?”

“When we pass the cemetery, I want you to look into it and tell me what you see.”

Hammy looked as they passed. “Nothing, just tombs. What else is there to see?”

“Oh, God!” the professor said as he peeked over the edge of the door. “Tell me you see it,” he said and ducked again.

“No, nothing. I can only see the cemetery.”