Ash (67 page)

Shawcroft-Draker suddenly began to wheeze again; he pulled a white handkerchief from beneath the tartan blanket and held it to his mouth.

‘Can I get you anything?’ Ash asked gently.

‘No, that’s very kind, but really, no. I don’t think my life will extend much longer and I
should
like to tell you of Louis. Even if I’ve left nothing much behind to be proud of, at least Comraich has taken care of him all these years.’

‘By keeping him in a tower room, allowed out only at night when others can’t see him?’ Ash suppressed his anger, remembering how frail the man before him was.

‘That was necessary, I’m afraid. You’ve seen his skin, how translucent it is. Before Dr Wyatt came here, he hardly ever left the tower, he was so ashamed. For twenty-odd years he never had a friend, someone he could talk to. Dr Wyatt’s arrival at Comraich changed all that. A bond developed between them.’

‘Then she knows who he is?’ Ash had leaned further forward with the intensity of the question. Had Delphine not trusted him enough to confide in him?

The other man might have scoffed: Lord Edgar’s pained breathing made it difficult to tell.

‘My boy, even Louis doesn’t know who he is. Perhaps
he
felt Delphine might be able to tell
him
.’

‘But you know.’

‘Yes, yes, of course I know. And I think it’s time he knew too. After all, he must be, what, nearly thirty by now.’

‘And . . . ?’ the investigator urged impatiently, for he, too, was aware that the Laird of Comraich did not have much more life in him.

Ash thought Shawcroft-Draker was choking at first, and half rose to help. Then he realized the other man was laughing through his wretched discomfort.

‘I’m . . . I’m sorry . . . Mr Ash. I don’t mean . . . to mock, but if only you knew . . .’

‘So tell me.’

‘I will, I will. But . . . but let me tell you in . . . in my own . . . way.’

They both waited, the glow of the fire diminishing by the moment in the surrounding darkness, as a candle might slowly die. The moving shadows of the room ate into the space between them.

‘Of course, you remember Princess Diana . . .’ Lord Edgar began, and Ash felt a sudden, extra chill run through him that had nothing to do with the coldness of the room, nor the wind that rattled the windows so fiercely.

The Laird of Comraich fell quiet again. Ash guiltily hoped he hadn’t lost him, not at this crucial point in the story. Then the old man began rubbing his wrist, dislodging the tartan blanket to reveal the unsightly tumour once more. ‘Strange sensation,’ he said as he continued to rub his lower arm. ‘Sort of prickling, burning. Tingling too.’

‘Princess Diana,’ Ash reminded him.

He ceased all movement. ‘Diana. Yes. Lovely girl. But, you see, she’d begun to rebel quite early in the marriage. Originally, she was forced to wear unfashionable dresses and rather silly hats. It was only later, once she began to use her own designers, that we realized how gorgeous she was. Five feet nine and beautiful with it. Flawless skin, beautiful eyes – movie-star looks, if you like.’

He swayed in his chair. Only the arms prevented him from rolling off. ‘Give me a moment,’ he murmured to the investigator, and Ash watched him as he tried to control his balance.

The Saxitoxin was taking its toll, Ash realized, and wished there was something he could do to help the man.

‘You may recall,’ he continued softly, ‘that at one time, early in the marriage, she threw herself down the stairs at the Palace as a protest. She tried it again, some time later, and it was discovered she was pregnant. She’d had her first child and longed for another. She—’

‘I recall many people assuming Prince Harry’s red hair meant that she’d taken a lover . . . a guardsman . . .’ Ash interrupted.

Lord Edgar spluttered and clung to the arms of the chair.

‘What dreadful minds we have,’ he croaked, once his coughing settled. ‘Everybody –
everybody!
– seems to forget that Diana’s brother, Earl Spencer, had red hair before it turned grey. The colour was in the Spencer genes, for God’s sake!’

Despite himself, Ash grinned and held up a hand in surrender.

Lord Edgar leaned forward so that their faces were even closer and he did not have to raise his voice to be heard.

‘Please listen, and try not to interrupt again. Time is short . . . So, as I was saying, when Diana fell down the flight of stairs for the second time – this would have been in 1983 – she was eighteen weeks pregnant. The fall induced early labour. Imagine the shock. She’d told no one of the pregnancy.’

Delphine had told him that Lewis had been born at eighteen weeks. The conclusion was inescapable: Lewis –
Louis
– was Diana’s child!

‘But it was the baby’s condition that shocked them all – or frightened them, if you prefer,’ Lord Edgar continued.

‘Louis’ skin: so fine it’s translucent,’ said Ash.

‘It’s transparent. Let’s not prevaricate. All the baby’s internal organs could be plainly seen. Louis was a freak of nature. Can you imagine how the royal family felt about that? William and Harry have never been told, of course. Obviously Her Majesty and Prince Philip were called, but only they and the Prince of Wales were aware of all the circumstances.’

Ash opened his mouth to speak, but the Laird of Comraich stopped him with a weary, trembling hand.

‘Please! No more interruptions. I can feel myself fading and I want you, at least, to know Louis’ birthright, no matter how unsightly his condition.’

The investigator hung his head and listened.

‘Impossibly, the child wasn’t the first to suffer such a curious physical abnormality, but in the past no baby born with it had been allowed to live. There were congenital problems for the boy, naturally: brain haemorrhage and heart disease were strong possibilities. The baby weighed less than one and a half pounds. He was so delicate, they say he resembled a newborn bird. He could be held in the palm of one hand. The attending physicians advised that the baby should be allowed to die naturally, but the Queen and Prince Philip decreed that such a decision could be made only by the baby’s parents. Diana was heavily sedated, and an immediate decision was required, so the boy’s fate was left solely to his father.

‘Many things – cruel things – have been said and written about Prince Charles, a lot of them inaccurate. But I can tell you, he’s a very spiritual person, a man with
soul
, and deeply philosophical. He was aware of the problems the monarchy faced should the matter become public knowledge, and, of course, he knew the child would face a terribly difficult life.

‘But Charles is no murderer. The baby was placed inside an incubator to keep him warm, and a ventilator used to help him breathe. Premature and abnormal the child might be, but while there was a chance he could live, Charles’s uncompromising stance was that everything possible must be done to help his son survive.

‘When he was asked to name the boy, without hesitation he said Louis: a small tribute to his great-uncle who had been murdered by the IRA just four years earlier.’

Ash listened in awe. Delphine really hadn’t a clue who her patient and friend was.

‘Of course, this was all done secretly. The baby’s true identity was never revealed to the medical staff who managed to keep him alive.’

‘And you – when did you discover who he was?’

‘As head of Comraich, I was informed of the child’s parentage when he arrived, though of course I was sworn to secrecy. Even Sir Victor isn’t privy to the secret and never will be, unless . . .’ Lord Edgar struggled to draw in a breath, ‘unless he is chosen as the new head.’

Another hold you have on the royal family
, Ash thought to himself.

‘Remarkably, the baby survived. You might even say “miraculously”.’

Another notion struck Ash. ‘Has Prince Charles ever visited his son?’

‘So far as the prince is concerned, his son is dead. Within days of his arrival we were instructed to inform him that the boy had died of complete renal failure. He agreed that the body should be cremated here. He had no wish to attend, nor would it have been wise to.’

‘Instructed by whom?’

‘By the highest authority, Mr Ash.’

Ash could see he would get no further with that line of questioning, and time was running short. ‘But Diana . . . ?’

‘Oh, she was told the baby had died within minutes of the birth. The sedatives were very strong, so strong that, when she was finally allowed to come round, she could scarcely remember the incident. Perhaps she didn’t want to remember. In any event, Diana never referred to the occasion ever again, I’m told.’

Ash was purposely blunt, angered by what he’d learned. ‘So there’s no official evidence, then, that Prince Louis exists.’

Shawcroft-Draker appraised Ash coldly. ‘There
is
evidence, and it’s in a deposit box in the vault of my private London bank, Coutts. Along with other items—’

Perhaps there would come a time when Ash would remember that, but at this point his thoughts were too much in turmoil to give it any particular significance. Once again, the old man swayed in his chair, his hands clutching the armrests tightly.

‘Vertigo,’ he told the investigator. ‘Just another effect of the Saxitoxin. My brain is acting strangely too. I think I’m going to a bad place. Perhaps Byrone will be waiting for me, although he was a better man than I.’

Ash knelt before Lord Edgar once more, gripping his upper arms to steady him.
Christ
, he thought,
he’s dying in front of me.

Lord Edgar’s movements slowly began to stiffen, as if he were collecting himself. Their faces almost level, the Laird of Comraich peered at Ash with fading, watery eyes.

‘If I had known,’ he said, catching his breath, ‘I think I would have taken Byrone’s way out. It must have been more pleasant than this, don’t you think? Or I could have asked Byrone to put a bullet in my brain.’

He groaned aloud and it seemed to Ash that the shadows around them were closing in even more rapidly, becoming frenetic, feathery wisps of darkness reaching into the soft cocoon of light.

‘I . . .’

Lord Edgar Shawcroft-Draker was attempting to speak, but now his words were thin and so quiet that Ash had to put his ear to Lord Edgar’s mouth.

‘These ghosts, Mr . . . Mr Ash, those that you . . . came . . . to investigate. They have visited me before, you know. Generally . . . in my sleep, but not . . . but not always. They . . . they have shown me my future. They revealed to . . . me . . . the Hell . . . the Hell that they have come from. The same . . . Hell that waits for . . . me. And it’s ugly . . . it’s abominable, abhorrent . . . a hideous place. I was glad . . . so glad . . . you came to me tonight. You see, by telling you . . . telling you . . . these secrets, I might save . . . save myself . . . at least from some of these horrors. Do you think it . . . possible? Mr Ash? Have . . . have I redeemed myself in some . . . in some small way?’

His eyes searched Ash’s, as though he might find the answer there. Perhaps even some kind of absolution.

Ash saw the old man’s eyes losing their focus. He was fading, Ash realized, waiting only for an answer, some spark of forgiveness – from him, of all people.

‘I’m afraid, d’you see? I’m terribly afraid. Please forgive me my sins, won’t you?’

‘I’m sorry, Lord Edgar, I’m not a priest,’ he said quietly.

Then Lord Edgar’s head slumped forward, and the life finally left him.

Despite his revulsion for all the dead man stood for, Ash felt that he should somehow pay his respects, but he was never given the chance. From somewhere in the castle – it sounded close, it had to be on this floor – came another loud
boom
.

Suddenly, the fire lashed out at Ash from the hearth, the heat causing him to utter a cry of fear rather than pain. He fell to the floor and he saw that the dancing shadows were backing away, as if they too had been scorched by the unexpected torrid flames. He rolled away from the fire, but realized that it had retreated to the confines of the hearth and was burning brightly, throwing out as much warmth as it had when he’d first entered the room.

Byrone’s corpse fell to the floor with a thump, and Ash began to pick himself up. He looked towards Lord Edgar, and saw he sat upright still, but with his head resting over the low back of the armchair, his neck exposed so that his Adam’s apple protruded like a gruesome lump ready to be sliced in two, and his cheeks had sunk into deep shadows. The eyes were not fully closed, but they were dull, and the laird’s mouth had opened wide. His chair had caught alight, small fires burning along one of its arms.

As Ash staggered to his feet he heard the door to the outer room crash open. Then heavy footsteps strode across the floor with a familiar voice shouting. ‘
The chapel’s on fire, your lordship. An explosion! And there has just been another in the corridor outside! We must get everybody out!
’ Filling the smaller room’s doorway was the huge figure of Sir Victor Haelstrom.

Then came a sound so frightening that it made Ash momentarily shrink into himself.

It was the bellow of Haelstrom’s terrible rage.

When Kate McCarrick awoke she found herself already sitting up in bed, the covering blanket fallen to her waist. She wore only a sheer nightdress, but her body beneath it was layered with a fine film of perspiration.

Her eyes were open wide but unseeing in the dimness of her bedroom. It took a second or two for her consciousness to catch up with her, for her mind was momentarily blank. Then the terrors reached her again.

She’d been dreaming – no, she’d been in a nightmare. Yet as much as she concentrated, she could glimpse only brief images. Most were of David. He was in danger. He was in terrible danger. Kate raised her knees under the covers, her arms going around them, forehead resting on top. She tried to remember, but as with most dreams, this one was elusive, so that all she could capture were feelings: feelings of fear and horror.

Something bad, something vile, was happening in Comraich Castle, and David Ash was caught at its centre.