The Bell Rock Mystery - Chapter 9
Created | Updated Apr 20, 2007
The sun shone on the cobbled courtyard of the Edinburgh Central Police Station. The clatter of wheel and hoof on the stone filled the cold December air. The afternoon sun almost had a hint of warmth in it, made a degree or so warmer by the fact that the cold northerly wind had subsided.
In the centre of the courtyard a line of twenty men stood to attention, all eyes front and centre. The buttons on their uniforms glistened in the afternoon sunlight like stars in the black night sky.
The men had been hand picked to be presented to the Queen later that evening. Chief Inspector Boyd, dressed in a large black overcoat, inspected the men. A sense of pride filled him as he walked along the line. He had watched the progress of many of these officers from cadets to constables to inspectors. As he reached the end of the line he adjusted the lapel of one of the officer’s jackets. Nothing had been amiss with the piece of clothing; he just liked to make a point. Perfection was not enough today.
“Good, good. You’re a credit to your uniform men. Her Majesty will never have seen such a well turned out group of men, and I…”
Boyd’s flow was broken as the heads of one or two of his best men started to turn towards the gate. Their eyes had caught sight of a man staggering through the large wooden gates, his face was red from exhaustion. Steam rose in the cold air from his large frame. In the shadow of the gate he stopped to catch his breath. The newcomer was dressed in oilskins, another seaman then, thought Boyd to himself.
McDonald was exhausted, he could not go another step, out of breath he fell to his knees, his legs felt like the lead weights he would throw over the side of the ship to test the depth of the water when he was a young lad at sea.
“Don’t just stand there lads,” bellowed Boyd, “Get him into the station house.” Two of the constables broke ranks and ran over to the man sitting on his knees. In spite of his considerable weight they managed to throw an arm over each of their shoulders and help the visitor into the building.
The search of the lighthouse began in earnest with the Lower Engine room. Having checked the two access ladders their attention was once more focused on the main part of the building. It was warm; the heat from the machinery gave a comfortable feeling to the room. Kitchener wondered why the living and bedrooms were not closer to the heat? Maybe it was the methodical hum of the machines put them off.
Kitchener was eager to start the investigation while his companion, following behind, did not show the same amount of enthusiasm.
“Lower Engine Room,” said Kitchener with the equivalent of a spring in his step. “Its a bit of a mess. Do you think there has been a struggle in here?”
Strand passed a quizzical eye around the room. There was no sign of a frenzied attack; nothing was broken, only a shovel was lying on the floor making the room look a little untidy. “Engine rooms are always a wee bit on the messy side.” Once again Strand inspected the pressure gauges connected to the pipes emerging from the generator. “Pressure still showing fine.”
“If someone had killed the keepers to put the lighthouse out of action, why maintain the generators?”
“If someone’s still here.” Strand was right. Kitchener was only presuming that they were not the only life on the lighthouse. “These things can run for two or three hours without maintenance.”
“Well, yes, I…”
He is suddenly stopped from continuing by a loud metallic clank coming from the rear of one of the large green machines. Both men froze on the spot and exchanged nervous glances. A plan of action needed to be formed, and quickly. Someone was hiding around the back of one of the generators. It stood approximately four feet off the wall, just big enough for someone to crouch behind comfortably. Kitchener immediately took control of the situation. He raised a finger directing Strand to proceed around the left-hand side of the machinery while he himself tiptoed around to the right. The plan was to trap whoever was concealing themselves behind the machine. Both men edged their way to the rear, Kitchener was relieved that the search would soon be over and the mystery cleared up. Strand however was shaking. What was waiting for them around the back of the huge piece of cast iron? Was it a violent killer or a frightened engineer awaiting rescue?
Resting against the green paint of the generator lay an iron bar, which Kitchener had no hesitation in picking up. A weapon was such a great leveller when it came to a fight, a deterrent against any assailant. He raised the iron bar above his head ready to strike. Strand looked over at the Inspector who with a nod of his head gave the signal, “Now!”
To say McDonald was hot after his run to the Police Station would be an understatement. Now in Boyd’s office he struggled for breath. A constable was helping him peel off the wet oilskins from his body. As they came off the perspiration that adhered to them dripped onto the floor of the office. His clothes were soaked through with his own bodily fluids. They would soon dry in the comparative heat of Boyd’s room, the fire was still throwing out large amounts of heat.
“That will be all constable.” Boyd instructed the young lad as he hung McDonald’s coat and leggings up to dry.
“Thank you young man.” Wheezed McDonald as he left the room. He fell down into the chair with a thump and then began to regain control of his respiratory system. Boyd sat opposite him and took two glasses and a bottle of whisky out of his bottom drawer.
“Drink?” Enquired the small Policemen.
“Aye” replied McDonald struggling to talk.
Boyd poured out two generous slugs of the liqueur and passed one over the table. McDonald was not a drinker as a rule, he took his responsibilities far too seriously to have his judgements clouded by drink, but this time he would put it down to medicinal purposes. He sipped the brown liquid, which burnt his throat on the way down. It seemed to strip the lining off as it slowly descended into his stomach. Boyd tossed his own drink back in one sharp movement. McDonald watched the little man and wondered how he didn’t do any damage to his neck drinking in such a fashion.
“You’re here with regards to the problem at Bell Rock I presume?”
“How on earth did you know about the problem with the light?”
McDonald was in a state of shock. If the Inspector hadn’t been a policeman of such high rank he would swear to him having knowledge of witchcraft. “I only sent the signal two hours ago.” Boyd smiled a reassuring smile; he could see the confusion in his visitors face. “Your relief keeper, he came here earlier today.”
“Who, Strand?” This did serve as an explanation of sorts, but it also added to McDonald’s confusion. Why had Strand come here? If there was a problem it would have been normal for the relief keeper to contact the signal tower, not the local constabulary.
“It was four hours since. He steamed out to the rock this morning, but couldn’t get in. The door had been locked from the inside.”
“Locked.” McDonald couldn’t believe what he was being told. Never in all his years had he ever heard of the lighthouse being locked.
“He returned to the mainland and upon docking he ran up here to raise the alarm. After a short discussion he returned to the rock and took a Scotland Yarder with him to investigate. McDonald looked puzzled, but laughed,
“That I would have liked to have seen.”
Now it was Boyd’s turn to have a confused expression on his face. “What, an Englishman sailing to the rock?”
“No, old Strand running up the hill.” Laughed McDonald who was in danger of loosing his breath once more.
Boyd wanted an explanation, “Old? No I’d put him no more than thirty years old.”
It was as though someone operating McDonald’s sense of humour had flicked a switch, he stopped laughing and his face instantly became more intense, peering into Boyd’s eyes, “What?”
The tension hung in the air of the Lower Engine Room, it could almost be seen, like the fog, which would cling to the River Thames. The critical moment had arrived. Kitchener and Strand simultaneously lunged around the back of the generator, Kitchener bringing down the iron bar to disable whoever may be there. Strike first; ask questions later is what this situation required. What he saw made him look in disbelief. The bar crashed down narrowly missing Strands head before landing on one of the many pipes situated behind the machine. A metallic clank echoed around the room.
The sudden noise awoke the occupant currently asleep behind the generator. A loud meow filled the room as a ginger cat jumped out from behind the piece of machinery where, up until a moment ago, it had been enjoying a nap in a warm dry place. The feline narrowly missed Strand’s face, talons ablaze, as it screeched through the air and up the stairs.
Both men were in a state of shock. Kitchener leant back against the external wall breathing heavily. Never before had he been so frightened.
“Did you know they kept a cat here?”
“No.” replied Strand, his face pale as though he had seen a ghost. He didn’t know how much more he could take of this.
In Boyd’s' office a hint of panic had entered the conversation. Boyd thought of Kitchener’s paranoia, maybe he had been right after all. If that was the case Boyd himself had been totally justified in sending the Englishman to the lighthouse. What had he sent him to though? What danger was waiting for him there?
“So what are you saying? The man who came here earlier today was not Douglas Strand?”
“Only if he had lost twenty years overnight.” The Strand McDonald knew was a man approaching the half-century and in appearance looking considerably older than his years. His elderly appearance was also matched by his physical ability. No way could the Douglas Strand he knew have run up the hill from the boat sheds, which lined the banks of the Forth.
“I’ve sent Kitchener there with him.” said the small man in a hushed, strained voice. “We have a Police launch in one of the boat sheds down on the river.” His tone was now one of action.” We’d better get down there and make ready to put to sea as soon as the tide will allow. We must get to the rock; the Inspector could be in grave danger. I have an idea that the man purporting to be Douglas Strand is an agent plotting to…” he hesitates, “…come on.”
“The tide will be against us now.”
“We can at least make her ready to put to sea.”
The storeroom was only illuminated by a single shaft of natural sunlight coming through the small window. It was late afternoon now and the sunlight was weak and had a distinct orange glare to it.
Kitchener rummaged around the many shelves, “Looks as though they were getting low on supplies, but not starving though.”
“I have brought the provisions for the next month with me.” Strand took a tin box off one of the shelves and proceeded to open it. He checked the contents before sealing the box up and replacing it back on the shelf.
“What happened to the supplies you brought here this morning, where are they now?”
“I left them in the boat house.”
Kitchener didn’t remember seeing them there, “Really I don’t recall seeing them?”
“No, I put them in the back corner, in the dark where no one passing could see them.” Kitchener was about to challenge this when Strand continued, “All the flares are here.” He said looking in another box. On the shelf above the box containing the flares sat a whole host of bottles and jars filled with pills and medicines for all illnesses and conditions.
“All the medical supplies intact too.” He observed.
Kitchener sighed a heavy sigh. The more they discovered, the stranger the problem became. With all the medical supplies intact, this closed down another avenue of investigation. None of the keepers could have overdosed on drugs causing them to take the others lives or in another case, their own. This area of thought gave him a new line of enquiry to explore though, “Do keepers go out of their minds very often?” Well, he had considered every other route and it was a possibility.
Strand considered the question for a moment or two. If anything like that happened to his fellow keepers it was not something advertised by the relevant lighthouse board. Lighthouse keepers loosing their minds and leaving lamps unattended was not a good image to portray. Seafarers needed the rock solid crew as a firm indication of the safe shipping lanes.
Strand had heard the dark tale only a few weeks previous. To him it was absolute evidence of paranormal activity here on Gods earth. No matter what sceptics such as Kitchener believed or said.
The story concerned the crew of a land bound lighthouse. “There was a case a few years ago, up on the north West Coast, Flannan Isle, where one dark foggy night the full crew disappeared. It was said that they lost their minds and jumped off the Lamp Room after seeing a giant sea monster attacking the lighthouse.” Strand believed the tale without question. “The keepers were never found, alive or dead.” Stories of sea monsters were often told by sailors who inhabited the pubs around the town, whilst on shore leave. Strand had been told the tale by his grandfather, who had heard it in a pub late one winter’s night, was it a true story? It was more likely to be seaman’s one-upmanship in the tall story competitions fuelled by the drink. If the events had happened in that way, how did the teller know the poor keepers had jumped off the top of the tower, why not use the door?
Nobody could say, but then who knew what lived in the deep dark waters of the North Sea? Many people had seen the monster that resided in Loch
Ness over the years, if one swam there why shouldn’t there be more.
Kitchener however was not sure, “Really”
“Of course the Bell Rock has its very own curse.” Strand left the sentence hanging, but the air of mystery he had tried to instil was completely wasted on Kitchener.
“Oh do tell me.” Kitchener said after a moment. He wasn’t going to ask but he took the hint, after all there was nothing else to do until the turn of the tide.
The grand old gentlemen’s club was situated in the heart of the city of Westminster, London. Its corridors had seen many great and good men pass through over the years. The smell of stale cigar smoke hung heavy in the air of the dark wood lined passages and rooms. Most of these were empty now, not many members were in attendance today.
The club had not been so empty two evenings ago. The main smoking room had played host to an impromptu lecture by the renowned scientist and botanist, Charles Darwin. He distracted an audience of members for two and a half hours with his extensive knowledge of botany, the origins of man, which caused the usual furore and his travels in far off lands collecting samples for the royal society. The talk had been well received and a firm promise was made that he would repeat the performance on a prearranged date.
In the reading room sat two men on high backed chairs. Both were reading a copy of today’s Times. Each chair had a small table situated off the right hand arm, on each table a perpetual glass of brandy. The two men were in the capital on business, the elder of the two morning suited men had grey hair swept back over his head. Plumes of grey cigar smoke lifted into the air, like great mushroom clouds above his head, while he passed an eye over the home news.
Outside in the cold, damp city Big Ben majestically peeled three times. The sound echoed around the passages and mews of the metropolis.
The younger of the two men looked up from his newspaper and glanced over, through the cloud of smoke, at his grey haired superior. “Three o’clock sir, we are underway.” It was a careless sort of thing to say which showed all the inexperience of his lack of years. One more slip such as that and his services in the organisation would be no longer required. The mono-phrase had not given anything away, no one could have read anything into it, but there was no room for loose talk in matters as important and as delicate as this.
The other man took note of the slip but said nothing, it would not go un-remembered. A smile came to his face as he raised a glass in his right hand in a silent salute.
The younger man was a relative newcomer to the organisation to which they had both sworn an oath of secrecy. Not as worldly or wise as the grey haired man he required, on occasion, a prod in the right direction, to learn when to keep a discrete silence. He had just received a steering nudge. In embarrassment he changed his tack, “What is that tree doing in the lobby?” he asked not knowing what else to say.
The grey haired man once again stopped reading; he allowed the top half of the newspaper to fall away from him before answering. “I believe it was one of Albert’s ideas. A Christmas tree, all the best houses have them now, it reminded him of home. Germany that is.” He thought of the late Prince Albert, they were good friends in an unofficial way, though never seen together in public. Albert had a first class strategic, tactical brain. The Empire had been safe with his steering hand at the summit.
The young man smiled and replied in a mocking voice, “It’ll never catch on.”
The senior member of the exchange smiled to himself, re-opened his newspaper and carried on reading the article on the repercussions of the Boar War on medical science. With the lecture from Mr Darwin still fresh in his mind he thought of scientific matters.
The world was changing, an age of change was sweeping over Britain and Her Empire. Medicines were beginning to cure all manner of disease, London had an underground rail system, and illuminating gas was being replaced with Edison Light, who knew were all this would end. Inventors and industrialists now commanded respect in today’s society and command the biggest fees.
This was indeed a changing age and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He could however manipulate it to his own ends or to the advantage of his organisation. The acts that were currently in fruition would at a conservative estimate give the Empire another twenty-five years at best. After that it would go the way of all things.
Over history, the secret society to which he belonged had followed the power base of the day; they had a hand in many Empires. As far back as the great Egyptian era through Mesopotamia to renaissance Italy the path could be tracked. In more recent times the society commanded seats of power in Napoleonic France and now the British Empire.
A new shift of the power base was due, but where to? It would be a location with money for potential. A decision would be made in due course.
Kitchener and Strand had once again returned to the living room. The search had found nothing. Both were convinced that whoever the attacker had been they were long gone by one means or another. Kitchener knew all that could be done had been achieved; a sense of helplessness engulfed him. All he could do now was to sit and wait for the tide to change. Strand was more than capable of running the lighthouse for the short space of time until the authorities arrived with a fresh crew or at least some kind of help.
Kitchener seated himself on one of the wicker sofas, his back towards the galley and the two bodies lying on the floor. There was no point in worrying now; he may as well take the time to recuperate before the torrid journey back to the mainland. Strand was standing, his body shivered as he looked across the room, “We canna leave those two there like that.” He said referring to the two departed keepers.
“No” Kitchener sighed. In his line of work he had, over the years, become used to seeing dead bodies, Strand however was not. Looking around the room Kitchener looked for anything that could be used as a temporary shroud. Over the back of the sofas hung a grey blanket. He passed it over to Strand. “Here, cover them with this.”
Strand took the blanket and held it close to his chest for a moment as though giving it a silent blessing. After staring at the bodies for a moment he summoned up the courage to step over them and carefully cover them with the makeshift shroud. Now he felt a little easier, why he did not know. Possibly it could be associated with the psychology of hiding the bodies, they were no longer in the room. Slowly he returned to the sofa. Not until he was seated did he allow himself to take his eyes off the blanket.
An uneasy silence descended on the room. Kitchener thought of the tasks he would have to undertake once he was back ashore, that was if the Queen and party were still alive. He shouldn’t think of such things. His mind jumped almost immediately to another question, why had he been sent here? Could Boyd be part of the plot? Was it his small part in the conspiracy to ensure that Kitchener was eleven miles out to sea when an assassination attempt would take place? None of these questions could be answered satisfactory until he had gathered more evidence. He must keep positive, there would still be time to intercept any assassin before anything happened.
Strand’s thoughts were occupied only with the macabre deaths of his two fellow keepers, how had it happened? He was convinced evil forces were at work here tonight. Here isolated from civilisation, what were they to do? Not only did he think paranormal forces were at work here, he knew who it was. The former keeper who came to a tragic end here had returned, there was no doubt about that.
Kitchener broke the silence, “Now, what was you going to tell me about this curse?” he asked in a much more cheerful voice than the circumstances dictated, thought Strand to himself.
“There’s something going on here, something unholy.” A dark tone had entered his voice once again.
“Don’t start all that again.” insisted Kitchener.
“There are more things in heaven and earth than we understand. Look at those two poor souls, not a mark on them, yet still they’re dead.”
Kitchener already had come to the conclusion that they met their death at the hands of a poison or someone skilled in unarmed combat, not all murders were committed with knife or bullet. Clearly Strand’s imagination would not accept such a mundane explanation. “What’s your explanation then?” asked the Policeman, fed up with all Strands psycho babble.
“They were scared to death.”
Throughout his years in the force, Kitchener had come across many variants on the cause of a death, but never had he heard of someone being scared to death. This would be worth listening to, “Go on…”
“Morris Tweedy.” Strand stopped talking as soon as he had started. Getting up from his seat he walked over to the cabinet shaped to the convex shape of the external wall. Kitchener could not help but be puzzled by his action. The burly figure dropped the latch on the top section of cabinet, “Aha.” he said with a note of pleasure. There in front of him sat a bottle of Scotch whisky. Two glasses were filled before he returned to the sofa passing one to Kitchener en-route, “Here, supplies.” He said with a smile on his face while making himself comfortable.
“And just who on earth is Morris Tweedy?” asked Kitchener before taking a drink.
Strand took a sip of his own drink then he was ready to tell his tale. “It was fifty years ago this very day that Morris Tweedy left the rock for the last time. He was a huge mountain of a man in his late fifties. His face was bright red in colour, the lower half of it covered in a grey beard. The grey hair that it was made up of hung tangled and twisted, looking as though an animal had taken up residence in it.”
The repartee in Strand’s storytelling surprised Kitchener; the vocabulary was far better than his own. It must be a tale passed down over the years from keeper to keeper, embellished on every outing.
“He was a man of great experience…” continued Strand, “…twenty years he had worked and lived on the rock. He was heading home for his winter leave; it was a journey he had made many times before. After saying his goodbyes and leaving many, varied instructions to be followed to the letter by the three keepers remaining. Once happy that his directions were clear to all, he set sail for the mainland. That of course was in the days before steam powered ships Inspector.
The keepers watched him make sail before retiring to the lamp room to command a better view of the departing captain. When he set off the weather had been calm, not a cloud to spoil the clear blue sky, only a slight breeze coming across from the west. The wind was welcome, it gave just enough to tack against and take him shore bound.
Suddenly, to the horror of the three remaining keepers a storm blew in from the north. No warning was given by the elements. It was as though the devil himself had dropped it on them from the heavens. The swirling winds and current pushed Tweed’s craft back toward the lighthouse and the deadly Bell Rock. The boat was tossed around by the crashing waves like a cork pushed into a bottle. Tweedy took in the sails to try and stabilise the boat, but to no avail. Even with his incredible strength he couldn’t navigate the boat away from the danger.
The three keepers away up in the lamp room could only stand and watch in horror as the boat was smashed to pieces on the rock.”
Strands voice had risen to a fevered pitch as the tale was told it climaxed with the crash, and then it dropped almost to a whisper as he continued.
“He didn’t stand a chance. Now on Christmas Eve he is said to walk the rooms of the lighthouse, his ghost trying to stop his living self from leaving on that last fateful journey. He is desperate to change history and give a warning to those who work the rock nowadays, never to take the sea for granted.” Strand had finished the tale. He sat back and thought of the old keeper, long since gone. The exhaustion of it had taken its toll on him. He lay there almost still and silent without the energy to raise a finger.
“I don’t agree with all this spirit talk. If they do exist then they certainly cannot harm us.”
“Don’t mock the dead, they walk.” Strand warned with a deep felt sincerity.
“Not tonight.” Kitchener’s reply came almost as a shout, certainly it was said with a raised voice. Enough was enough there was no such thing as ghosts. His opinion was not one of the masses. Mediums, clairvoyants and psychics were the apples of the era’s eye. Many of the rich and famous people of the day would consult their own ambassador to the spirits before making business decisions or embarking on marriages. These were the modern day advisors; did we put too much trust in them?
Slightly embarrassed by his raised voice and the fact that he had probably struck a blow on Strand’s feelings; he turned his head away and sought something else to focus his attention on. Maybe his opinion was his own; maybe he should have kept it to himself.
Lying on the floor beside the sofa was a magazine. Bending over the arm of the chair he picked it up and turned to the front cover, it may fritter away the time until he could make his escape. The title of the publication was in white print in the top right hand corner ‘The Strand Magazine’. His heart fell as he realised that he had already read it. On one of the quiet nights at the yard he had found a copy and read with the confines of that shift. Still, he thought its worth another look.
As he fumbled through the pages he became aware of Strand staring at him. It gave him a feeling of unease. Maybe he could take a hint. Reading the magazine on his knee he spoke in an official tone to Strand, “I don’t think much more can be done here now. If there was a plot to take the lighthouse nothing has come to pass.
My priority must be to get back to the mainland, what time is the next tide?”
“I don’t know, I’ll find out.” Once again Strand begrudgingly crossed the room to the small cabinet and opened one of the panels. He took out a large green backed book and thumbed through the many pages. Finding the correct page denoted by date order it took only a few moments for the reference he sought. “Low water mark at the Bell Rock, six thirty p.m.
“They will have docked by then, oh well nothing I can do now. I’ll just have to sit it out here.” Once again he turned his attention to the magazine.
“I read that a few months ago. There is an excellent new author writing in it, name of Conan Doyle. He’s written a story called ‘A Study in Scarlet’. Local man you know.”
If Kitchener hated one thing above any other it was being interrupted when he was reading. When he found himself reading either a work of fiction or an article in the newspaper he would lose himself in it, almost as though he was there and part of the events taking place, seeing it as it happens. Neither his wife or work colleagues would utter a word when he was found to have his nose in a book or a piece of paper work.
He took a deep breath and held back a full scale attack on Strands rudeness, after all he did not know of Kitcheners dislikes, “Yes, this Holmes character.” Then once again he turned his attention to the magazine.
Strand sighed to himself, the policeman had said something earlier that he had heard but didn’t quite register in his mind at the time. “What made you think the lighthouse was going to be captured?”
Kitchener knew that he wasn’t going to get any of the magazines read. He dropped it to the floor in a manner which left Strand under no illusion of what he was thinking. After taking a long drink of whisky he was ready to tell Strand a tale that any old sea dog would be hard pressed to beat.
“It goes back to the end of August…”
more soon...
In the centre of the courtyard a line of twenty men stood to attention, all eyes front and centre. The buttons on their uniforms glistened in the afternoon sunlight like stars in the black night sky.
The men had been hand picked to be presented to the Queen later that evening. Chief Inspector Boyd, dressed in a large black overcoat, inspected the men. A sense of pride filled him as he walked along the line. He had watched the progress of many of these officers from cadets to constables to inspectors. As he reached the end of the line he adjusted the lapel of one of the officer’s jackets. Nothing had been amiss with the piece of clothing; he just liked to make a point. Perfection was not enough today.
“Good, good. You’re a credit to your uniform men. Her Majesty will never have seen such a well turned out group of men, and I…”
Boyd’s flow was broken as the heads of one or two of his best men started to turn towards the gate. Their eyes had caught sight of a man staggering through the large wooden gates, his face was red from exhaustion. Steam rose in the cold air from his large frame. In the shadow of the gate he stopped to catch his breath. The newcomer was dressed in oilskins, another seaman then, thought Boyd to himself.
McDonald was exhausted, he could not go another step, out of breath he fell to his knees, his legs felt like the lead weights he would throw over the side of the ship to test the depth of the water when he was a young lad at sea.
“Don’t just stand there lads,” bellowed Boyd, “Get him into the station house.” Two of the constables broke ranks and ran over to the man sitting on his knees. In spite of his considerable weight they managed to throw an arm over each of their shoulders and help the visitor into the building.
The search of the lighthouse began in earnest with the Lower Engine room. Having checked the two access ladders their attention was once more focused on the main part of the building. It was warm; the heat from the machinery gave a comfortable feeling to the room. Kitchener wondered why the living and bedrooms were not closer to the heat? Maybe it was the methodical hum of the machines put them off.
Kitchener was eager to start the investigation while his companion, following behind, did not show the same amount of enthusiasm.
“Lower Engine Room,” said Kitchener with the equivalent of a spring in his step. “Its a bit of a mess. Do you think there has been a struggle in here?”
Strand passed a quizzical eye around the room. There was no sign of a frenzied attack; nothing was broken, only a shovel was lying on the floor making the room look a little untidy. “Engine rooms are always a wee bit on the messy side.” Once again Strand inspected the pressure gauges connected to the pipes emerging from the generator. “Pressure still showing fine.”
“If someone had killed the keepers to put the lighthouse out of action, why maintain the generators?”
“If someone’s still here.” Strand was right. Kitchener was only presuming that they were not the only life on the lighthouse. “These things can run for two or three hours without maintenance.”
“Well, yes, I…”
He is suddenly stopped from continuing by a loud metallic clank coming from the rear of one of the large green machines. Both men froze on the spot and exchanged nervous glances. A plan of action needed to be formed, and quickly. Someone was hiding around the back of one of the generators. It stood approximately four feet off the wall, just big enough for someone to crouch behind comfortably. Kitchener immediately took control of the situation. He raised a finger directing Strand to proceed around the left-hand side of the machinery while he himself tiptoed around to the right. The plan was to trap whoever was concealing themselves behind the machine. Both men edged their way to the rear, Kitchener was relieved that the search would soon be over and the mystery cleared up. Strand however was shaking. What was waiting for them around the back of the huge piece of cast iron? Was it a violent killer or a frightened engineer awaiting rescue?
Resting against the green paint of the generator lay an iron bar, which Kitchener had no hesitation in picking up. A weapon was such a great leveller when it came to a fight, a deterrent against any assailant. He raised the iron bar above his head ready to strike. Strand looked over at the Inspector who with a nod of his head gave the signal, “Now!”
To say McDonald was hot after his run to the Police Station would be an understatement. Now in Boyd’s office he struggled for breath. A constable was helping him peel off the wet oilskins from his body. As they came off the perspiration that adhered to them dripped onto the floor of the office. His clothes were soaked through with his own bodily fluids. They would soon dry in the comparative heat of Boyd’s room, the fire was still throwing out large amounts of heat.
“That will be all constable.” Boyd instructed the young lad as he hung McDonald’s coat and leggings up to dry.
“Thank you young man.” Wheezed McDonald as he left the room. He fell down into the chair with a thump and then began to regain control of his respiratory system. Boyd sat opposite him and took two glasses and a bottle of whisky out of his bottom drawer.
“Drink?” Enquired the small Policemen.
“Aye” replied McDonald struggling to talk.
Boyd poured out two generous slugs of the liqueur and passed one over the table. McDonald was not a drinker as a rule, he took his responsibilities far too seriously to have his judgements clouded by drink, but this time he would put it down to medicinal purposes. He sipped the brown liquid, which burnt his throat on the way down. It seemed to strip the lining off as it slowly descended into his stomach. Boyd tossed his own drink back in one sharp movement. McDonald watched the little man and wondered how he didn’t do any damage to his neck drinking in such a fashion.
“You’re here with regards to the problem at Bell Rock I presume?”
“How on earth did you know about the problem with the light?”
McDonald was in a state of shock. If the Inspector hadn’t been a policeman of such high rank he would swear to him having knowledge of witchcraft. “I only sent the signal two hours ago.” Boyd smiled a reassuring smile; he could see the confusion in his visitors face. “Your relief keeper, he came here earlier today.”
“Who, Strand?” This did serve as an explanation of sorts, but it also added to McDonald’s confusion. Why had Strand come here? If there was a problem it would have been normal for the relief keeper to contact the signal tower, not the local constabulary.
“It was four hours since. He steamed out to the rock this morning, but couldn’t get in. The door had been locked from the inside.”
“Locked.” McDonald couldn’t believe what he was being told. Never in all his years had he ever heard of the lighthouse being locked.
“He returned to the mainland and upon docking he ran up here to raise the alarm. After a short discussion he returned to the rock and took a Scotland Yarder with him to investigate. McDonald looked puzzled, but laughed,
“That I would have liked to have seen.”
Now it was Boyd’s turn to have a confused expression on his face. “What, an Englishman sailing to the rock?”
“No, old Strand running up the hill.” Laughed McDonald who was in danger of loosing his breath once more.
Boyd wanted an explanation, “Old? No I’d put him no more than thirty years old.”
It was as though someone operating McDonald’s sense of humour had flicked a switch, he stopped laughing and his face instantly became more intense, peering into Boyd’s eyes, “What?”
The tension hung in the air of the Lower Engine Room, it could almost be seen, like the fog, which would cling to the River Thames. The critical moment had arrived. Kitchener and Strand simultaneously lunged around the back of the generator, Kitchener bringing down the iron bar to disable whoever may be there. Strike first; ask questions later is what this situation required. What he saw made him look in disbelief. The bar crashed down narrowly missing Strands head before landing on one of the many pipes situated behind the machine. A metallic clank echoed around the room.
The sudden noise awoke the occupant currently asleep behind the generator. A loud meow filled the room as a ginger cat jumped out from behind the piece of machinery where, up until a moment ago, it had been enjoying a nap in a warm dry place. The feline narrowly missed Strand’s face, talons ablaze, as it screeched through the air and up the stairs.
Both men were in a state of shock. Kitchener leant back against the external wall breathing heavily. Never before had he been so frightened.
“Did you know they kept a cat here?”
“No.” replied Strand, his face pale as though he had seen a ghost. He didn’t know how much more he could take of this.
In Boyd’s' office a hint of panic had entered the conversation. Boyd thought of Kitchener’s paranoia, maybe he had been right after all. If that was the case Boyd himself had been totally justified in sending the Englishman to the lighthouse. What had he sent him to though? What danger was waiting for him there?
“So what are you saying? The man who came here earlier today was not Douglas Strand?”
“Only if he had lost twenty years overnight.” The Strand McDonald knew was a man approaching the half-century and in appearance looking considerably older than his years. His elderly appearance was also matched by his physical ability. No way could the Douglas Strand he knew have run up the hill from the boat sheds, which lined the banks of the Forth.
“I’ve sent Kitchener there with him.” said the small man in a hushed, strained voice. “We have a Police launch in one of the boat sheds down on the river.” His tone was now one of action.” We’d better get down there and make ready to put to sea as soon as the tide will allow. We must get to the rock; the Inspector could be in grave danger. I have an idea that the man purporting to be Douglas Strand is an agent plotting to…” he hesitates, “…come on.”
“The tide will be against us now.”
“We can at least make her ready to put to sea.”
The storeroom was only illuminated by a single shaft of natural sunlight coming through the small window. It was late afternoon now and the sunlight was weak and had a distinct orange glare to it.
Kitchener rummaged around the many shelves, “Looks as though they were getting low on supplies, but not starving though.”
“I have brought the provisions for the next month with me.” Strand took a tin box off one of the shelves and proceeded to open it. He checked the contents before sealing the box up and replacing it back on the shelf.
“What happened to the supplies you brought here this morning, where are they now?”
“I left them in the boat house.”
Kitchener didn’t remember seeing them there, “Really I don’t recall seeing them?”
“No, I put them in the back corner, in the dark where no one passing could see them.” Kitchener was about to challenge this when Strand continued, “All the flares are here.” He said looking in another box. On the shelf above the box containing the flares sat a whole host of bottles and jars filled with pills and medicines for all illnesses and conditions.
“All the medical supplies intact too.” He observed.
Kitchener sighed a heavy sigh. The more they discovered, the stranger the problem became. With all the medical supplies intact, this closed down another avenue of investigation. None of the keepers could have overdosed on drugs causing them to take the others lives or in another case, their own. This area of thought gave him a new line of enquiry to explore though, “Do keepers go out of their minds very often?” Well, he had considered every other route and it was a possibility.
Strand considered the question for a moment or two. If anything like that happened to his fellow keepers it was not something advertised by the relevant lighthouse board. Lighthouse keepers loosing their minds and leaving lamps unattended was not a good image to portray. Seafarers needed the rock solid crew as a firm indication of the safe shipping lanes.
Strand had heard the dark tale only a few weeks previous. To him it was absolute evidence of paranormal activity here on Gods earth. No matter what sceptics such as Kitchener believed or said.
The story concerned the crew of a land bound lighthouse. “There was a case a few years ago, up on the north West Coast, Flannan Isle, where one dark foggy night the full crew disappeared. It was said that they lost their minds and jumped off the Lamp Room after seeing a giant sea monster attacking the lighthouse.” Strand believed the tale without question. “The keepers were never found, alive or dead.” Stories of sea monsters were often told by sailors who inhabited the pubs around the town, whilst on shore leave. Strand had been told the tale by his grandfather, who had heard it in a pub late one winter’s night, was it a true story? It was more likely to be seaman’s one-upmanship in the tall story competitions fuelled by the drink. If the events had happened in that way, how did the teller know the poor keepers had jumped off the top of the tower, why not use the door?
Nobody could say, but then who knew what lived in the deep dark waters of the North Sea? Many people had seen the monster that resided in Loch
Ness over the years, if one swam there why shouldn’t there be more.
Kitchener however was not sure, “Really”
“Of course the Bell Rock has its very own curse.” Strand left the sentence hanging, but the air of mystery he had tried to instil was completely wasted on Kitchener.
“Oh do tell me.” Kitchener said after a moment. He wasn’t going to ask but he took the hint, after all there was nothing else to do until the turn of the tide.
The grand old gentlemen’s club was situated in the heart of the city of Westminster, London. Its corridors had seen many great and good men pass through over the years. The smell of stale cigar smoke hung heavy in the air of the dark wood lined passages and rooms. Most of these were empty now, not many members were in attendance today.
The club had not been so empty two evenings ago. The main smoking room had played host to an impromptu lecture by the renowned scientist and botanist, Charles Darwin. He distracted an audience of members for two and a half hours with his extensive knowledge of botany, the origins of man, which caused the usual furore and his travels in far off lands collecting samples for the royal society. The talk had been well received and a firm promise was made that he would repeat the performance on a prearranged date.
In the reading room sat two men on high backed chairs. Both were reading a copy of today’s Times. Each chair had a small table situated off the right hand arm, on each table a perpetual glass of brandy. The two men were in the capital on business, the elder of the two morning suited men had grey hair swept back over his head. Plumes of grey cigar smoke lifted into the air, like great mushroom clouds above his head, while he passed an eye over the home news.
Outside in the cold, damp city Big Ben majestically peeled three times. The sound echoed around the passages and mews of the metropolis.
The younger of the two men looked up from his newspaper and glanced over, through the cloud of smoke, at his grey haired superior. “Three o’clock sir, we are underway.” It was a careless sort of thing to say which showed all the inexperience of his lack of years. One more slip such as that and his services in the organisation would be no longer required. The mono-phrase had not given anything away, no one could have read anything into it, but there was no room for loose talk in matters as important and as delicate as this.
The other man took note of the slip but said nothing, it would not go un-remembered. A smile came to his face as he raised a glass in his right hand in a silent salute.
The younger man was a relative newcomer to the organisation to which they had both sworn an oath of secrecy. Not as worldly or wise as the grey haired man he required, on occasion, a prod in the right direction, to learn when to keep a discrete silence. He had just received a steering nudge. In embarrassment he changed his tack, “What is that tree doing in the lobby?” he asked not knowing what else to say.
The grey haired man once again stopped reading; he allowed the top half of the newspaper to fall away from him before answering. “I believe it was one of Albert’s ideas. A Christmas tree, all the best houses have them now, it reminded him of home. Germany that is.” He thought of the late Prince Albert, they were good friends in an unofficial way, though never seen together in public. Albert had a first class strategic, tactical brain. The Empire had been safe with his steering hand at the summit.
The young man smiled and replied in a mocking voice, “It’ll never catch on.”
The senior member of the exchange smiled to himself, re-opened his newspaper and carried on reading the article on the repercussions of the Boar War on medical science. With the lecture from Mr Darwin still fresh in his mind he thought of scientific matters.
The world was changing, an age of change was sweeping over Britain and Her Empire. Medicines were beginning to cure all manner of disease, London had an underground rail system, and illuminating gas was being replaced with Edison Light, who knew were all this would end. Inventors and industrialists now commanded respect in today’s society and command the biggest fees.
This was indeed a changing age and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He could however manipulate it to his own ends or to the advantage of his organisation. The acts that were currently in fruition would at a conservative estimate give the Empire another twenty-five years at best. After that it would go the way of all things.
Over history, the secret society to which he belonged had followed the power base of the day; they had a hand in many Empires. As far back as the great Egyptian era through Mesopotamia to renaissance Italy the path could be tracked. In more recent times the society commanded seats of power in Napoleonic France and now the British Empire.
A new shift of the power base was due, but where to? It would be a location with money for potential. A decision would be made in due course.
Kitchener and Strand had once again returned to the living room. The search had found nothing. Both were convinced that whoever the attacker had been they were long gone by one means or another. Kitchener knew all that could be done had been achieved; a sense of helplessness engulfed him. All he could do now was to sit and wait for the tide to change. Strand was more than capable of running the lighthouse for the short space of time until the authorities arrived with a fresh crew or at least some kind of help.
Kitchener seated himself on one of the wicker sofas, his back towards the galley and the two bodies lying on the floor. There was no point in worrying now; he may as well take the time to recuperate before the torrid journey back to the mainland. Strand was standing, his body shivered as he looked across the room, “We canna leave those two there like that.” He said referring to the two departed keepers.
“No” Kitchener sighed. In his line of work he had, over the years, become used to seeing dead bodies, Strand however was not. Looking around the room Kitchener looked for anything that could be used as a temporary shroud. Over the back of the sofas hung a grey blanket. He passed it over to Strand. “Here, cover them with this.”
Strand took the blanket and held it close to his chest for a moment as though giving it a silent blessing. After staring at the bodies for a moment he summoned up the courage to step over them and carefully cover them with the makeshift shroud. Now he felt a little easier, why he did not know. Possibly it could be associated with the psychology of hiding the bodies, they were no longer in the room. Slowly he returned to the sofa. Not until he was seated did he allow himself to take his eyes off the blanket.
An uneasy silence descended on the room. Kitchener thought of the tasks he would have to undertake once he was back ashore, that was if the Queen and party were still alive. He shouldn’t think of such things. His mind jumped almost immediately to another question, why had he been sent here? Could Boyd be part of the plot? Was it his small part in the conspiracy to ensure that Kitchener was eleven miles out to sea when an assassination attempt would take place? None of these questions could be answered satisfactory until he had gathered more evidence. He must keep positive, there would still be time to intercept any assassin before anything happened.
Strand’s thoughts were occupied only with the macabre deaths of his two fellow keepers, how had it happened? He was convinced evil forces were at work here tonight. Here isolated from civilisation, what were they to do? Not only did he think paranormal forces were at work here, he knew who it was. The former keeper who came to a tragic end here had returned, there was no doubt about that.
Kitchener broke the silence, “Now, what was you going to tell me about this curse?” he asked in a much more cheerful voice than the circumstances dictated, thought Strand to himself.
“There’s something going on here, something unholy.” A dark tone had entered his voice once again.
“Don’t start all that again.” insisted Kitchener.
“There are more things in heaven and earth than we understand. Look at those two poor souls, not a mark on them, yet still they’re dead.”
Kitchener already had come to the conclusion that they met their death at the hands of a poison or someone skilled in unarmed combat, not all murders were committed with knife or bullet. Clearly Strand’s imagination would not accept such a mundane explanation. “What’s your explanation then?” asked the Policeman, fed up with all Strands psycho babble.
“They were scared to death.”
Throughout his years in the force, Kitchener had come across many variants on the cause of a death, but never had he heard of someone being scared to death. This would be worth listening to, “Go on…”
“Morris Tweedy.” Strand stopped talking as soon as he had started. Getting up from his seat he walked over to the cabinet shaped to the convex shape of the external wall. Kitchener could not help but be puzzled by his action. The burly figure dropped the latch on the top section of cabinet, “Aha.” he said with a note of pleasure. There in front of him sat a bottle of Scotch whisky. Two glasses were filled before he returned to the sofa passing one to Kitchener en-route, “Here, supplies.” He said with a smile on his face while making himself comfortable.
“And just who on earth is Morris Tweedy?” asked Kitchener before taking a drink.
Strand took a sip of his own drink then he was ready to tell his tale. “It was fifty years ago this very day that Morris Tweedy left the rock for the last time. He was a huge mountain of a man in his late fifties. His face was bright red in colour, the lower half of it covered in a grey beard. The grey hair that it was made up of hung tangled and twisted, looking as though an animal had taken up residence in it.”
The repartee in Strand’s storytelling surprised Kitchener; the vocabulary was far better than his own. It must be a tale passed down over the years from keeper to keeper, embellished on every outing.
“He was a man of great experience…” continued Strand, “…twenty years he had worked and lived on the rock. He was heading home for his winter leave; it was a journey he had made many times before. After saying his goodbyes and leaving many, varied instructions to be followed to the letter by the three keepers remaining. Once happy that his directions were clear to all, he set sail for the mainland. That of course was in the days before steam powered ships Inspector.
The keepers watched him make sail before retiring to the lamp room to command a better view of the departing captain. When he set off the weather had been calm, not a cloud to spoil the clear blue sky, only a slight breeze coming across from the west. The wind was welcome, it gave just enough to tack against and take him shore bound.
Suddenly, to the horror of the three remaining keepers a storm blew in from the north. No warning was given by the elements. It was as though the devil himself had dropped it on them from the heavens. The swirling winds and current pushed Tweed’s craft back toward the lighthouse and the deadly Bell Rock. The boat was tossed around by the crashing waves like a cork pushed into a bottle. Tweedy took in the sails to try and stabilise the boat, but to no avail. Even with his incredible strength he couldn’t navigate the boat away from the danger.
The three keepers away up in the lamp room could only stand and watch in horror as the boat was smashed to pieces on the rock.”
Strands voice had risen to a fevered pitch as the tale was told it climaxed with the crash, and then it dropped almost to a whisper as he continued.
“He didn’t stand a chance. Now on Christmas Eve he is said to walk the rooms of the lighthouse, his ghost trying to stop his living self from leaving on that last fateful journey. He is desperate to change history and give a warning to those who work the rock nowadays, never to take the sea for granted.” Strand had finished the tale. He sat back and thought of the old keeper, long since gone. The exhaustion of it had taken its toll on him. He lay there almost still and silent without the energy to raise a finger.
“I don’t agree with all this spirit talk. If they do exist then they certainly cannot harm us.”
“Don’t mock the dead, they walk.” Strand warned with a deep felt sincerity.
“Not tonight.” Kitchener’s reply came almost as a shout, certainly it was said with a raised voice. Enough was enough there was no such thing as ghosts. His opinion was not one of the masses. Mediums, clairvoyants and psychics were the apples of the era’s eye. Many of the rich and famous people of the day would consult their own ambassador to the spirits before making business decisions or embarking on marriages. These were the modern day advisors; did we put too much trust in them?
Slightly embarrassed by his raised voice and the fact that he had probably struck a blow on Strand’s feelings; he turned his head away and sought something else to focus his attention on. Maybe his opinion was his own; maybe he should have kept it to himself.
Lying on the floor beside the sofa was a magazine. Bending over the arm of the chair he picked it up and turned to the front cover, it may fritter away the time until he could make his escape. The title of the publication was in white print in the top right hand corner ‘The Strand Magazine’. His heart fell as he realised that he had already read it. On one of the quiet nights at the yard he had found a copy and read with the confines of that shift. Still, he thought its worth another look.
As he fumbled through the pages he became aware of Strand staring at him. It gave him a feeling of unease. Maybe he could take a hint. Reading the magazine on his knee he spoke in an official tone to Strand, “I don’t think much more can be done here now. If there was a plot to take the lighthouse nothing has come to pass.
My priority must be to get back to the mainland, what time is the next tide?”
“I don’t know, I’ll find out.” Once again Strand begrudgingly crossed the room to the small cabinet and opened one of the panels. He took out a large green backed book and thumbed through the many pages. Finding the correct page denoted by date order it took only a few moments for the reference he sought. “Low water mark at the Bell Rock, six thirty p.m.
“They will have docked by then, oh well nothing I can do now. I’ll just have to sit it out here.” Once again he turned his attention to the magazine.
“I read that a few months ago. There is an excellent new author writing in it, name of Conan Doyle. He’s written a story called ‘A Study in Scarlet’. Local man you know.”
If Kitchener hated one thing above any other it was being interrupted when he was reading. When he found himself reading either a work of fiction or an article in the newspaper he would lose himself in it, almost as though he was there and part of the events taking place, seeing it as it happens. Neither his wife or work colleagues would utter a word when he was found to have his nose in a book or a piece of paper work.
He took a deep breath and held back a full scale attack on Strands rudeness, after all he did not know of Kitcheners dislikes, “Yes, this Holmes character.” Then once again he turned his attention to the magazine.
Strand sighed to himself, the policeman had said something earlier that he had heard but didn’t quite register in his mind at the time. “What made you think the lighthouse was going to be captured?”
Kitchener knew that he wasn’t going to get any of the magazines read. He dropped it to the floor in a manner which left Strand under no illusion of what he was thinking. After taking a long drink of whisky he was ready to tell Strand a tale that any old sea dog would be hard pressed to beat.
“It goes back to the end of August…”
more soon...
