The Curse of Loch Ness Read online

  THE CURSE OF LOCH NESS

  PETER TREMAYNE

  © Peter Tremayne 1979

  Peter Tremayne has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1979 by Sphere Books Ltd.

  This edition published in 2017 by Venture Press, an imprint of Endeavour Press Ltd.

  To Dot Houghton, who suggested a few years ago that I should write a Loch Ness tale, and to Terry Harknett, who waited patiently for fifteen years for me to join the club.

  With gratitude.

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  The Mystery of Balmacaan Castle

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  INTERLUDE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  INTERLUDE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  INTERLUDE

  Part Two

  The Curse of Cathan

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  INTERLUDE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A Note on Scottish Gaelic

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  He came one night to her bed foot,

  And a grumly guest I’m sure was he,

  Saying: — Here am I, thy bairn’s father,

  Although I be not comely,

  I am a stranger upon the land My world lies deep beneath the wave,

  The loch’s my fortress and my home And, one day,’twill be my grave.

  Ancient Scottish ballad grumly — fierce-looking

  Part One

  The Mystery of Balmacaan Castle

  CHAPTER ONE

  An elderly man was running along the grass-tufted shores of Loch Ness.

  The translucent blue May sky cast little reflection on the muddy-grey waters of the great loch, whose ugly, dark choppy waves, whipped by the Spring winds, contrasted vividly with the pastel shades of the day. Across the rolling hills and jagged mountains that surrounded the loch, pale yellow contrasted sharply with the deep greens and browns; the whins were in bloom across the slopes and the gorse had suddenly come alive in a riot of bright colour. It seemed, to the unaccustomed eye, that here and there the gorse flowers suddenly flitted into the air until it was realised that the shrubs were alive with tiny yellow winchats — little birds whose colouring blended into the furze. They would rise with squeaky cries, form a yellow cloud and dart purposefully across the landscape before dispersing once more into the gorse.

  Out in the middle of the loch, the ancient ferry Urquhart was chugging with the season’s first batch of hardy tourists, making her sedate journey from the pierhead at Dores, at the north end of the loch, down to Fort Augustus, at the south end. The ferry was wallowing through the choppy swell as the sharp northerly winds spoilt the Spring day and made futile the warming efforts of the sun’s pale orb which hung listlessly in the cloud-splashed sky.

  Apart from the movement of the ferry and the running man there was little to indicate that civilisation had reached this spot, which seemed to endure in all its pristine beauty and splendour from an age that was old even before man emerged from his cave-dwellings.

  But the elderly man was not appreciative of the beauty of the day.

  He was running for his life.

  He slipped, scrambled and pushed forward through the furze, along the banks of the loch, sometimes following the winding loch-side pathway, sometimes trying to cut across clumps of tall grass and heather. His breath came in panting sobs; his eyes stood wide and stark out of a pale, death-white face. His silver hair was matted with sweat and there was a trickle of blood across his broad forehead where a thorn bush had whipped across his face when he had stumbled and fallen into the gorse. His clothes, well tailored, were now torn and mud stained.

  Sobbing, his open mouth twisted and working half in terror and half in order to suck in short mouthfuls of breath, the man paid no heed to the bushes that tore at him, ripping his clothes and scratching his hands.

  Only now and then would he cast terrified eyes towards the dark waters, which action seemed to lend impetus to his failing strength and spur him onwards.

  The sound of the ferry caused hope to spring into the man’s eyes. He stopped, his chest heaving, and raised a frail arm — but, across the loch, the ferry Urquhart was swinging over to the far bank to make a pick-up at the Invermoriston pierhead. Over a mile of treacherous black water separated the man from the ferry.

  There was a sudden commotion in the waters of the loch, near to the bank on which the man stood gasping as he vainly tried to regulate the shallow rasp of his breathing.

  Eyes bulging with fear, the man backed away; then turned with a cry and started to run once more; towards the rising slopes of Beinn a’ Bhacaidh, whose jagged brown peak seemed so near. If only he could make the higher slopes of the mountain, away from the loch …

  But the waters by the bank were bubbling and frothing.

  With a sob of despair, the man realised that it was too late.

  He stumbled and fell.

  Raising himself on one arm, his eyes strained in terror towards the loch.

  ‘No!’ he screamed. ‘No … a Dhia! A Dhia! Cuir stad air!’

  Suddenly his body jerked forward as a spasm of pain tore at his chest. His eyes started from his head and, with a choking cry, he collapsed and lay still.

  The northerly wind suddenly died away causing the waters of the loch to still and the warmth of the pale sun to penetrate the atmosphere. Across the expanse of water, through the dismal cries of the gulls and the chirping of the nesting whinchats, the throaty chugging of the Urquhart's engines sounded. The aging ferry pulled from the small bay at Invermoriston and then pushed out into the now tranquil waters to continue its journey to Fort Augustus with its cargo of wide-eyed, camera-clicking tourists.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Miss Millbuie is here, sir.’

  The voice of Simpson Kyle’s secretary sounded distorted over the intercom, as if coming from a million miles away and not merely from the adjoining office.

  Simpson Kyle stared at the black box for a moment before reaching across his desk and pushing down a switch.

  ‘Will you show her in, Miss Robertson?’

  Unhurriedly, he stacked the papers on his desk, inserted them into a buff-coloured file which he then fastened with a pinky-red tape and thrust to one side. He stood up, pulling down his spotless white shirt cuffs and straightening the hang of his dark grey suit.

  If there was a stereotype of a solicitor, Simpson Kyle of Thompson, Kyle and Kyle of Inverness, Writer to the Signet, would fulfil every specification. He was nearly sixty years old, a tall man although inclined to stoop, with a pale face whose parchment skin had the impression of being stretched too tightly over the bones of his face and gave him a gaunt, almost skeletal, appearance. His blue eyes glinted behind rimless spectacles which usually lodged halfway down his nose. He had a high-domed head which was balding,
although wisps of silvery hair were carefully combed from the poll towards the forehead in order to offset the fact — one of Simpson Kyle’s few vanities. He always dressed in sombre grey suits except on Sundays when, as an elder of his kirk, he donned a dark blue serge suit.

  Simpson Kyle was known to be precise, serious, honest and sober. And, as a man, terribly dull and boring. He would not have been out of place in some Dickensian solicitor’s office.

  The oak panelled door of his office opened and Miss Robertson, one hand absently tidying her mouse-coloured hair in its twisted bun, announced: ‘Miss Millbuie, sir.’

  Simpson Kyle’s eyes widened perceptibly as the attractive young woman entered the room. It was the walk he immediately noticed. Over the years he had come to regard himself as something of an expert on the way people walked. It told much about their characters. There were the people who slouched into a room: they were not to be trusted. Others would march, arrogant and aggressive: they would give you trouble. Others would shuffle: they would be timid and afraid. There were many ways of walking into a room and Simpson Kyle had analysed them all. This girl, she could not be more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight, entered with a firm stride, not arrogantly but confidently; a girl who was obviously self-assured without feeling she had to be aggressive to demonstrate the fact.

  Simpson Kyle stepped from behind his desk and extended his hand.

  ‘Miss Millbuie?’ he asked, unnecessarily. ‘How do you do?’

  Her face was slightly angular, he noticed, with the sort of fresh pale skin that he associated with girls from the Western Isles, almost translucent white with a little spray of freckles across the nose and cheeks which had a touch of high colour in them. Her eyes were green and seemed to twinkle as if constantly amused. The lines around her mouth and eyes, almost indistinct, showed that laughter came naturally to her. She had a broad, intelligent forehead and a mass of reddy-auburn hair.

  She was not much more than five feet tall and, so it seemed to Simpson Kyle, had an excellent figure. His mouth quirked in subconscious amusement at this judgement from a kirk elder. Still, it was so. She wore slacks (or did they call them trousers these days?) tucked into tight-fitting boots just below the knee; a blouse and jacket gave her a boyish appearance.

  Simpson Kyle suddenly became aware that the girl was returning his scrutiny with amusement twitching at the corners of her well-shaped mouth.

  ‘Do forgive me, Miss Millbuie,’ apologised Kyle, a faint flush giving a red tinge to his cheeks. He motioned her to a seat before his desk. ‘I was merely examining the Millbuie likeness which you seem to have.’

  ‘Oh?’

  There was a tone of gentle scepticism in the girl’s voice. Kyle swallowed nervously. He was a liar and he rebuked himself for it silently, but even as he did so he realised that there was a definite likeness between the young woman and old Donald Millbuie.

  ‘Indeed,’ he rejoined a trifle hastily. ‘You have the family’s broadness of forehead and colouring.’

  The girl said nothing.

  Kyle, after an embarrassed pause, continued:

  ‘Did you have a comfortable journey to Inverness?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘I drove up from Edinburgh yesterday. It was quite a pleasant drive. I came through Perth and Aviemore.’

  Kyle rested his thin hands on his desk.

  ‘Aye, pleasant enough. But the tourists will soon be flocking to Aviemore … ’ his voice trailed off as if he were reflecting on the vision of tourists turning the little Scottish town into something resembling an Alpine resort with Blackpool overtones. Then he jerked himself back. ‘Are you staying in Inverness? Do you have a good hotel?’

  ‘Yes. I’m staying at the Caledonian.’

  ‘Ah yes. In Church Street, I know the one. Very comfortable and modern, I believe?’

  There was another uncomfortable pause.

  ‘Will you take some coffee or tea?’

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘Then … er, perhaps we should get down to business?’ Kyle reached into a drawer, pulled forth a large blue folder and opened it on his desk.

  ‘Just as a formality, you understand, can you tell me your full name?’

  ‘Jean Millbuie but I have always been called Jeannie.’

  ‘Just so, just so,’ nodded Kyle. ‘And can I have some proof of identity?’

  Jeannie Millbuie smiled, reaching into her handbag.

  ‘Yes, I thought you might want that … here is my passport and birth certificate.’

  Kyle took them, peered closely at them and handed them back.

  ‘Well, that dispenses with identification. Now,’ he sat back in his chair and, resting his elbows on the arms, placed his hands together with fingertips touching just before his chin. ‘Now,’ he repeated, ‘the situation is as I stated it in my letter, Miss Millbuie. It appears that you are the only surviving descendant of the Millbuie family, who have been the lairds of Balmacaan in Strath Errick for many, many centuries.’

  ‘Yes, so Mr Watson, the London solicitor who contacted me, told me. I had absolutely no idea. I knew my grandfather was born near Inverness but that was a long time ago … he moved to London when he was young. My father, who was born and brought up in London, used to tell me stories about him but never that he came from some ancient family with castles and everything. I only have a few memories of my grandfather. He died when I was eleven years old. My parents died four years ago, within six months of each other.’

  The girl paused in reflection, then smiled.

  ‘Does it mean that there is a Millbuie clan as well?’

  Kyle smiled thinly.

  ‘Clans are nebulous things, Miss Millbuie. The modern concept of the Scottish clan system is totally erroneous. The ancient system vanished centuries ago when chieftainship started to become hereditary.’

  The girl looked disappointed.

  ‘Then there is no Millbuie tartan?’

  Kyle coughed.

  ‘Well, I’m sure if you contacted the Lord Lyon King of Arms office in Edinburgh or the Scottish Tartans Society, they would come up with something for you. The majority of so-called clan tartans cannot be dated much beyond the reign of Queen Victoria.’

  Jeannie Millbuie frowned.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about Scottish history,’ she confessed.

  ‘No matter,’ rejoined Kyle. ‘You were saying that you were eleven years old when your grandfather died?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘His name was Dougal Millbuie but apart from that fact I know practically nothing else about him.’

  Simpson Kyle shuffled his papers.

  ‘Dougal Millbuie was the youngest son of the then laird. He appears to have run away from home at the age of sixteen years and obviously, from what we now know, he made his way down to London.’

  The girl glanced at the papers spread on Kyle’s desk.

  ‘I understood from your letters and from Mr Watson that a cousin of mine, Donald Millbuie, died last year with no heirs and that it was in your search for an heir that you found me. Can you tell me what happened?’

  Kyle nodded.

  ‘Certainly. Our firm of Thompson, Kyle and Kyle have acted as solicitors to the Millbuie family ever since 1820. The Millbuies are one of the oldest families in Scotland and it is said that they trace their descent back to the ancient chieftains of the Moray clans during the reign of MacBeth. Donald Millbuie was the last of the line, that is saving yourself.’

  ‘He never married?’

  ‘Never. He had very strong views against marriage. He was a strange man. A dour man, you understand? Sullen, obstinate, full of dark brooding passions. He could lose his temper with ease. He lived down at Balmacaan Castle and I’m not at all sure that he had any friends in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘And how did he die?’

  ‘Heart failure, so they say. He was found dead by the shores of Loch Ness, on the Balmacaan estate, having apparently suffered a severe se
izure. That would be almost a year ago.’ Kyle paused, and looked through his papers. ‘Sure enough, a year ago next month, Miss Millbuie.’

  ‘Was he an elderly man?’

  ‘Och, he was no great age. Sixty-four years old, I believe.’

  ‘That’s no age nowadays,’ agreed the girl.

  ‘Aye, but it was no great shock, I am told. His housekeeper, Mistress Murdo, said that the laird had been ill for some time, complaining of pains. But he dismissed them as indigestion and refused to see a doctor.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The old laird died intestate … that is without making a will. He actually told me once, on one of his rare visits to Inverness, he believed he was the only surviving Millbuie left in the country. But after he died I did some checking of the records and found out about your grandfather Dougal Millbuie. It was then a question of tracing his kin.’

  The girl smiled.

  ‘And that was how your representative, Mr Watson, found me?’

  Kyle nodded.

  ‘Just so. It took us some time. But here you are. And you are now the sole heir to the Millbuie estate at Balmacaan.’

  ‘Which you told me in your letter consists of a castle … ?’ Kyle made a clicking noise with his tongue.

  ‘Och well, maybe you folk in the south would not call it a castle exactly … more an old and big house which was built upon the ruins of an old castle. The castle was mostly destroyed by Cumberland’s troops during the suppression of the Forty-Five … the Stuart uprising, you know?’

  ‘Oh yes, I know about that.’

  ‘Aye. Well, Balmacaan Castle, for it is still called that, stands in sixty acres of fine ground by the loch side just below the village of Foyers. It was greatly restored in Queen Victoria’s day when Scottish grand houses became fashionable. In addition to the property there is a trust fund with an annuity accruing which is just enough to cover the rates, taxes and running costs of the property.’