Aughillie

By Jack Leathem

A dying woman burdens Michael Dawson, a young relative, with a vow she was unable to fulfil. The boy reluctantly takes on the task and soon finds he is confronted with mystery after mystery. Who is the young man killed in the London Blitz in 1941, in whom his aged relative had such an interest? Who carried out the century-old burglary at AUGHILLIE, a 17th-century house built by the Hamilton family during the resettlement of Ulster in the early 1600s, and why did the stolen artefacts never surface? Who is the shadowy figure who is prepared to kill to secure the information Michael is unveiling? All these things are intertwined. Danger to Michael and his family, culminating in the abduction of his mother, presents the boy with the almost-impossible task of rescuing her and solving the mysteries with which he is confronted. But prevail, he does.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: May 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463271728

Book preview

Prologue

The sirens had sounded. Those that could took cover in Anderson shelters and underground stations;, those who could not, found sanctuary where it was expedient, huddling in outhouse, or tool- shed or home-made bunker in the back garden. Even the cubby-hole under the stairs was put to good use . All hoped they would survive the night, praying for God’s protection until the raid was over.

London was in black-out, the streets unnaturally quiet, as if the city were asleep or holding its breath. Searchlights probed the air, operators hoping to frame a target for the anti-aircraft guns. Soon the drone of engines could be heard, a rolling thunder that grew in volume and generated fear in those below.; the The Luftwaffe had arrived;, Heinkel and Dornier, Junker and MesserschmittMessersmicht, the last a protective phalanx supporting the heavier planes with their lethal loads. Shortly after that the bombs came, five-hundred pounders, followed by the lightning flashes of resulting explosions. They fell in stacks. They did not discriminate. For them there was neither colour nor creed, no rich or poor; Kensington and Whitechapel were all the same to them, their legacy a cruel democracy of carnage and destruction.

When, at last, the planes had passed, London was ablaze. New sounds were heard; the frantic appeals for help from the trapped, the screams of the injured and dying, the bells of fire- engines and ambulances, drivers trying to reach the worst areas of devastation through streets strewn with rubble and burning vehicles and unexploded incendiaries.

Police, ARPS, civilian volunteers, anyone able-bodied enough to help, began the grim task of dragging people from the wreckage. They searched and they dug, often with inadequate tools, often with their bare hands, trying desperately to reach those buried in the collapsed and burning buildings. Some would be saved. Later, some would wish they had died beneath the rubble, such was the suffering and disfigurement that awaited them.

The hospitals were struggling to cope. Like the rest, St. Bartholomew’s was a scene of frenzied activity, medical staff striving to reduce the situation to one of merely organised chaos. The air- raids of the past month had meant long days for everyone, the injured taxing both skills and endurance as they arrived in a stream that seemed endless. The number of beds required was insufficient. Patients crowded the corridors, the more fortunate among them accommodated on trolleys, while others lay on mattresses on the floor. Even the nurses’ recreation hall had been commandeered to house the overspill. The medical staff moved amongst the prone figures making difficult choices, selecting the most badly injured for immediate treatment, abandoning others to temporary suffering. They worked to near -exhaustion, resuscitating here, administering pain-killing drugs there; doing their best to save the lives of those with a chance of survivalsurviving, making those that hadn’t as comfortable as possible.

Like others, one particular man was dying. The nurses knew it, and allocating their priorities to where they felt they would do more good, they were unable to give him proper treatment. A perfunctory examination by a hard-pressed doctor, followed by a shake of the head, was all the medical attention he got. Bleeding internally and with severe wounds to the head, his condition was such that only superficial treatment was deemed necessary. Wounds hastily patched and bandaged, he was shoved off to a corner of the refectory where, at least, he had an old, obsolete bed on which to pass his final days. Mostly unconscious, and at times raving, occasionally he uttered a few sensible words as some connection of the synapses in his damaged brain was briefly made. In his parlous state, he almost became one of the forgotten ones;, but not quite. One young nurse took an interest in him. Having heard him mutter deliriously, sometimes in French, sometimes in English, she realised they had something in common. When no visitor came to enquire about him, she made it her business to sit by his bedside.

The attention she gave him was not wholly altruistic. Three months previously her young husband had been killed. The Battle of Britain was at its height and his spitfire had been shot down over the English Channel; no body was recovered. So when she looked at the stricken patient, she saw someone like her own dead husband – similar age, similar looks. He might not be aware of her presence, but she could still take his hand and speak softly to him, an act of compassion she found strangely comforting.

The matron, overstretched, overstressed, and finding it almost impossible to keep on top of things, still strove to keep a motherly eye on her young staff, and she noted the unusual interest the nurse was taking in this particular patient. Normally she would have chased the girl home when her long shift ended, ordering her to get some much needed rest; but aware of her charge’s recent bereavement, she made no attempt to dissuade the nurse from her vigil, having more pressing matters to concern her.

The young man died four days later; and his presence immediately proved to be a problem for the authorities. No relative could be traced and the staff at the French Embassy had no record of him. After his burial, a French identity card in the name of Bernard Courvasse, which, was among the few items on him when he was admitted to hospital, was used by the administrators to make both a record of his death and the cemetery of his interment. A Roman Catholic priest, two gravediggers and the caring nurse were the only people at his graveside.

In the following weeks, attempts by the police and the Embassy to trace his family drew a blank. This was hardly surprising, given the number of unknown persons killed in the bombings, and the time-consuming nature of their task. The case was given no less attention than any other and when a series of quick checks drew no result, the file was shelved and those dealing with it moved on to other matters.

A month after the investigation was abandoned, a hospital administrator passed the man’s personal possessions to the matron who, in turn, placed them in an envelope and handed it to the young nurse, hoping the contents would bring some comfort to her. Then she put the matter from her mind.

The recipient of Bernard Courvasse’s effects never did.

Chapter One

They were walking across a meadow peppered with daisies and buttercups; ragwort waved gently in a cooling breeze, their pollen-heavy blooms a heady banquet for bumblebees and butterflies, two twelve year old boys, carefree and happy as only the young can be.

Michael’s dog, Canis, made sweeping runs through the grass and wildflowers, seeking the scent of hare or rabbit, a fringe flapping about her eyes. A cross between a Tibetan terrier and an Old English sheepdog, she was much more intelligent than either breed. At times she seemed to have a sixth sense, which led Maxie, Michael’s companion, to declare more than once that she was bewitched. Michael, to add to her mystique, did not abuse him of the notion.

Although the same age, physically, the two boys were poles apart. Michael was of normal size for his age, but Maxie, still a few months short of his thirteenth birthday, was already six feet tall, with every expectation of being a giant when he was fully grown.

At present he was clad in Wellington boots and dungarees, having been released by his father from hosing down the family farmyard when Michael had called round for him. The power- hose was in action each evening after the cows had been rounded up for milking. After a day in the field chewing cud, a stroll to the milking sheds behind the farmhouse generally worked bowels and bladders, and the inevitable mess had to be washed away, a task usually laid to Maxie as the younger sibling. Hannah, his older sister, was adept at escaping this, something about which the boy grumbled incessantly.

Michael loved being out of doors. Often kept housed in the evening to tackle extra study imposed by his father, any chance of freedom was grasped eagerly, and his spirits rose commensurately with the length of time away from home he was permitted. Any chance he got to escape, he took. The open spaces were a delight after being cooped up in his bedroom, the smells and the colours around him a sensual treat after the fustiness of books and documents. As he walked, his eyes constantly swept his surroundings, taking in every facet of the countryside within sight; the hedgerows, the fields, the various types of trees, the grazing animals, the birds singing or in flight. It was in this environment that he was happiest.

He bent and picked a cookie-sour. He began to chew it, appreciating the slightly tart flavour. "Chaucer wrote of dayes eyes because people thought of daisies as the eyes of the day," he remarked.

Maxie pretended to mishear him. Who’s Saucer?

He’s a man who didn’t like his tea in a cup.

Bit like my granny.

A bit like you as well. Everyone in Maxie’s family drank out of large mugs. And his name’s not Saucer.

What is it then? Maxie was still carrying on the pretence of ignorance.

You know very well who he was.

No, go one, tell me.

Michael sighed dramatically. A fourteenth century English poet; you would appreciate him, being a farm- boy.

How come?

Among other things he wrote about country matters."

Like what?

Michael thought for a moment. He wrote about birds.

"Like what?

"Like the cuckoo – Summer is icumen in, loud syngeth cuckoo."

That wasn’t Saucer. That was anon.

Michal was aware of this and, a bit annoyed at being caught out, he snapped back, How would you know? You’ve no interest in things literary.

Heard big sister quoting it the other night., s She’s doing ‘O level’ English, so you’re not as clever a Dick as you thought you were.

And she said it was written anonymously? Michael was still hoping to cast doubt on Maxie’s assertion.

No, but she was reciting the first lines of poems with no known author, and that was one of them.

Doesn’t mean it wasn’t by Chaucer, Michael replied lamely. It’s from the same period.

Wrong answer, Maxie said triumphantly. That means you’re not sure it was by Tosser.

Don’t you mean, Saucer? Anyway, it’s me’s the tosser for trying it on, he added with false contrition.

But Maxie was not to be fooled by a show of humility. Looking smug, he said., And being caught out, you mean.

All right, I concede. But it could still be by Chaucer. There’s no proof that it isn’t.

Oh, give over. Anyway, why do you persist in coming out with these crappy bits of information. Nobody’s interested.

Just trying to raise the tone of the discussion.

Why would you want to do that? Sport and heavy metal’s all I’m interested in.

You’re not the whole world.

I might as well be. I’m the only one you try them out on.

How do you know?

I know.

Come on, how do you know? You’re not with me all the time.

No, but I’m certain I’m the only one who would tolerate the boredom.

Michael felt he was losing the argument. That’s how much you know. I’m much sought after for my erudite conversation, he said loftily.

Aye, by intellectual snobs and those who know what erudite means., and And that’s nobody younger than old age.

How old is old age?

Bout thirty, maybe thirty- five.

That’s what Michael liked about Maxie. If things were getting too serious, he had the knack of reducing any debate to the level of farce. He laughed and his friend laughed with him.

Seriously, though, Maxie continued. Why do you come out with these things?

I’m not sure. At times my mind seems to be overcrowded and they just spill out, sometimes before my brain’s properly in gear. Do you really mind?

What do you think?

"I don’t know what to think. Your mind’s a bit of a mystery."

Well. I’ll enlighten you, then. I think you think too much. You should be more like me – a man of action. I see, I do, I conquer.

Like veni, vedividi, vichivici.

Something just spilled out again. What does that mean? Oh, don’t tell me, or we’ll start this stupid conversation from square one."

Michael was about to tell him, but then thought better of it. Instead, he said, Oh, all right, I won’t burden the man of action with anything that might cause him to be sedentary.

Maxie looked as if he were about to make a cutting reply, but, instead, his mind raced off in another direction. Fancy going to the Kingspan stadium on Friday evening?

Where?

Ravenhill, to you."

What’s on – the Stones, the Who, or the Arctic Monkeys?

Ulster versus Munster, that’s what, Maxie replied, his eyes shining at the prospect.

My dad doesn’t allow me to go to soccer matches.

Maxie looked disgusted. It’s not soccer, it’s --------.

Michael’s look of delight stopped him and he made a half-hearted swipe at his tormentor, who stepped adroitly out of range.

Do I ever learn – do I what? Seriously though, he continued, again using one of his favourite phrases, Would you not go? My dad’s got four tickets; I could get him to take you.

Don’t bother; he’d be wasting his time.

"Under the cudgel again?

You could say that.

What is it this time – animal, vegetable or mineral?

The great engineers,’, past and present. He dug up an old Meccano set the other night and I’m currently constructing the Forth Rail Bridge. As an extra, I have to research the man who designed it and write a piece about him. Then it’s one engineer a week for the next few weeks on, Brunel, De Lessops, Watt, Stephenson, Telford and any modern great I care to choose.

Lucky you.

Aye, Michael responded disconsolately.

They walked on, sniping and bantering good-naturedly, a never-ending game of one-upmanship, something of which they never seemed to tire.

As they approached the farmhouse, Dick and Meg, the farm’s border collies, came out to meet them, bodies low and tails wagging. When they spotted Canis, they straightened up and raced to meet her. After a bit of nosing, all three took off into the fields, chasing and leaping and exhibiting an excess of joie- de- vivre.

The boys turned into the yard, which was steaming slightly as it dried out after Maxie’s ministrations with the hose. Hannah was walking towards them from the direction of the milking shed. She was an old adversary of Michael’s, who took a perverse pleasure in teasing him spitefully, a trait born out of jealousy at his superior intellect. He stopped when he saw her.

Oh, ho, the genius of the lower orders, she exclaimed loudly when she saw him. Done any amazing things today – explained Einstein’s’s Theory of Relativity or solved the riddle of the universe?"

Michael’s face went red. Normally when faced with sarcasm from anyone he was able to respond with a cutting reply, but Hannah intimidated him, and his ability to give as good as he got deserted him.

Maxie came to his aid. Get lost, skinny. Although only sixteen, Hannah was as tall as Maxie. With a slim figure and a glorious head of auburn hair, she could have graced any catwalk. Good looks and a sinuous gait, which Maxie swore she practised, only added to her attractiveness. She was well aware of this and was not averse to using her good looks to influence others. At school she was a favourite of the teaching staff, with whom she acted ingratiatingly, and it was almost taken for granted that she would be head girl one day.

I wasn’t addressing you, she said with intentional hauteur. You’re just a cheeky nothing, who doesn’t matter to anyone.

And Michael does?

Momentarily caught out, she hesitated before giving a disdainful shake of the head. He matters as much as you do, and that’s not saying much.

Is that so – well, the only person who matters to you, apart from yourself, of course, is Beanpole Armstrong, and he won’t give you a second glance. Beanpole Armstrong was the head boy at the local grammar school, which all three of them attended.

Stung, she replied hotly, That’s not true, that’s just not true.

What’s not true – the fact that he doesn’t matter to you, or he hasn’t taken you under his notice?

Seeing she was treading on quicksand, she sniffed dismissively. You’re a waste of space, the pair of you."

Big head;! wWhy don’t you go and play on the road.

She turned away, and then hesitated for a second as the gibe registered. But unable to come up with an instant rejoinder, the battle was lost and she flounced into the house, her face set in tight lines.

Michael gazed at his friend in awe. Brilliant, he breathed.

Maxie looked pleased. She hates it when I remind her of that. He’s not interested in her. But she’s nuts about him. So remember that the next time she goes for you..

If I used that she’d claw my eyes out.

Cobblers; when you hit her below the belt she has no wind left.

I’ll take your word for it, Michael replied doubtfully.

Maxie,’s attention span was short and, tiring of the subject, he changed the subject. Are you coming in?" he asked.

Naw, I’ve got to get back to my extra-curricular activity. My dad will question me about it later on.

I’ve got a great new CD – Black Sabbath – talk about noisy; it nearly brings the ceiling down.

I’ll pass. Truth to tell, Michael didn’t like heavy- metal music. Most of it he found lacked structure and a recognisable tune, and it was such a racket that it tended to give him a sore head. But he wouldn’t have told Maxie that. Maxie’s bedroom was a sanctuary for him and he wanted to keep it that way.

Tell your old man to stop murdering you.

I wish I could. But he’s too big for me. Michael’s attempt at humour failed badly. I’ll see you in the morning, he finished lamely.

Not if I see you first.

Michael grinned. Buenos noches."

Hasta la vista.

Chapter Two

Michael set off down the narrow lane leading from the farmhouse to the main road. Normally he would have returned home through the fields, which would have saved him a few minutes journey- time, but tonight something prompted him to take the longer route. It made little difference which way he went, for the walk, either way, was less than ten minutes in duration. He was on his own, Canis still away cavorting with the two border collies, but this state of affairs would not last long. She would soon sense that Maxie and he had parted company and would quickly re-join him.

It was a fine evening, the sun temporarily behind a thin layer of cirrus clouds. Birds were giving vent to their freedom, especially the blackbirds, and apart from the occasional hum of a car engine ahead on the road, their warblings were the only sounds to disturb the peace.

The hedges were low on either side, having recently been hacked back by Maxie’s father, savagely in places, exposing white and ragged edges where the back of nascent ash trees had been severed or stripped from their stems. Michael’s dad would have been incensed by this, his view of nature being romantic rather than practical. Michael wasn’t enamoured by the butchery either, knowing that an unkempt hedgerow provided a variety of small creatures with a cloistered habitat, but he was pragmatic enough to realise that a farmer’s actions were often a necessary contribution to his livelihood, in this case qualifying for a government grant, and with the added benefit of making room for farm vehicles to move unencumbered between fields.

As he neared the end of the lane, the noise of the traffic on the road increased in volume, this being the main arterial route between the towns of Lurgan and Banbridge. He was in a good frame of mind, despite the fact that he still had homework to do and the task his father had set. An hour in Maxie’s company ensured his spirits always improved.

As he turned out of the lane on to the long hill he was about to descend, the sun suddenly broke free and was reflected brilliantly by the chrome surrounding the headlights of an approaching car. Momentarily blinded, he closed his eyes, a circular after-image forming behind his eyelids. And in that instant a warm flow of blood seemed to pass across his brain, not unpleasant, but distinctly unusual. He kept his eyes closed until the after-image began to fade. On opening them he felt strangely different.

His first thought was that the change was organic. Everything around him had slowed down, or so it seemed. The approaching traffic crawled towards him as if restrained by some opposing force. At the same time, the world went quiet – no birds singing, no breeze rustling the leaves in hedgerow or tree, no sound of car engines, no roar of heavy lorries as their drivers changed down a gear to tackle the hill; no extraneous noises anywhere. Each step he took was slow and ponderous and seemed to take an age. Even his heartbeat, which was the only sensation of which he was aware, was operating at a greatly reduced rate. The world, and he along with it, was in a state of semi-suspended animation. Yet he felt no alarm, only a sense of peace as he moved like a snail homeward.

His mind had not slowed, however, and he wondered how long the trance-like state would last. The answer was not long in coming. After a dozen paces or so, noise burst upon him like a small explosion and everything regained its equilibrium. The normal ebb and flow of life was restored.

He shook his head, which was a bit fuzzy, at the same time wondering what was happening and, in that moment, Canis appeared by his side. She nudged his leg, her eyes locked curiously on to his face, as if sensing that all was not as it should be. She whined.

It’s all right, girl, he assured her thickly. Nothing to worry about. But he wasn’t as sure of that as he sounded. His period of calm had passed and he was now beginning to think that something had temporarily affected him his mind.

When he arrived home, he told his mother about the peculiar sensation he had just experienced. She was beavering away in the kitchen preparing the evening meal and seemed more occupied with her task than the account of what had happened to him.

Sounds like an epileptic fit, she murmured abstractedly, more concerned with the potatoes she was peeling.

Michael, taking her seriously, was shocked. He knew about epilepsy. One of the boys in his class at school was subject to the ailment and he had read up on it. There were two types – grand mal, which was preceded by a warning before the convulsion took place; this could be a pattern of lights behind the eyes, or a noise in the head like the ringing of bells, and gave the sufferer a few moments to prepare for what was to come; and then there was petit mal, where the effect was less severe, sometimes only amounting to a feeling of drowsiness and could be over in seconds. When this occurred, sometimes the victim was unaware that anything untoward had happened, especially if the attack took place in bed at night. Michael felt that if his experience had been one of these it had to be the second, the trance having lasted hardly any length of time, with no attendant convulsion.

Mrs Dawson suddenly realised her son was uncharacteristically silent and she glanced up from her task. Noting that he looked concerned and, realising her unthinking remark was the cause of this, she said hastily, Just joking; I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. I get the odd dizzy spell myself.

It wasn’t a dizzy spell.

Could be you’re at that age, then – you know, growing up. Probably your blood’s changing.

What to – water? Michael answered.

His mother smiled wanly and didn’t reply.

Only then did Michael realise she looked pale. Instantly he pushed his problem to the back of his mind. He worried about his mother, knowing how difficult a time she had come through.

On the death of his twin sister, Lucy, some years ago following a short bout of meningitis, his mother had suffered a period of severe depression. Although still on medication, she had now largely conquered the problem, but Michael remembered the zombie-like person she had been when at her worst, and he was always fearful that a relapse would return her to a similar state. He had been greatly affected by the change in her at that time and, as a consequence, was constantly looking for signs that she was on a downward spiral again. At the moment she seemed to be preoccupied, her hands working away at preparing the meal, while her mind was elsewhere, perhaps in some dark place.

Are you all right, mum? he asked, trying to hide his anxiety.

He didn’t succeed. At his enquiry, she emerged from wherever she had been. Concerned about me? she said, smiling again, but this time like her old self.

A little.

Well, don’t be. I’ve just had a bit of bad news, that’s all.

Bad news?

Your great Aunt Geraldine’s dying. She only has a few days to live.

Great Aunt Geraldine was really his great, great aunt, but that was too much of a mouthful for everyone, so only one great was used. She was very old, well into her nineties and a relative of his father. Michael was taken to see her periodically; visits that he dreaded. He thought she was a cold-natured woman. She never addressed him by his first name and when she spoke to him, her words were always prefixed by, ’you boy,’ something which never failed to annoy him.

What’s wrong with her?

Cancer.

Is there nothing the doctors’ can do for her?

They could operate, try to remove the tumour and then gave her post-operative treatment."

Chemotherapy.

Mrs Dawson nodded.

"Are they going to?

Too late; her condition’s terminal.

Why didn’t they do it sooner?

She wouldn’t agree to it.

Why not?

She said she wasn’t going to go through all that at her age and to give their time and their treatments to someone more likely to benefit from them.

Did nobody try to change her mind?

Your father did, and her local GP, maybe others I don’t know about, but it was all to no avail. A strong-minded woman is your great Aunt Gertrude.

Michael was in agreement with that. He could just imagine the old woman stubbornly refusing to cooperate, and for the first time he felt a twinge of respect for her.

Satisfied now?

Michael nodded, secretly relieved that the reason for his mother’s quiet mood lay elsewhere.

Then away you go and allow me to make your dinner.

Michael turned away. Half-way to the door he stopped, Is my blood really changing?" he asked.

She smiled. Maybe, maybe not. When you reach your age, there comes a point when growth- rate starts to accelerate. This causes physiological changes in the body which sometimes have side effects, some normal, like the voice breaking and then deepening, and some not so normal.

Like those I experienced today?

Possibly – acne, dizziness, fainting spells, any of these can be a consequence of growing up.

Anything else? Michael asked, slightly alarmed.

Yes, you become a teenager, a species inflicted on the adult world as punishment for its sins. Now, go away and give my head peace.

Michael went outside to the outhouse with Canis trailing along with him. Mum’s all right, he said to the dog. She wagged her tail as if in agreement.

The outhouse had been converted by his father into a workshop. A variety of tools hung in racks round the walls, all labelled, all neat and tidy, all in their appropriate slots, a testimony to Mr Dawson’s meticulous nature. A workbench with a vice attached to one end took up space beneath the lone window. Adjacent to this, another, smaller bench, held a partly completed construction made up of Meccano parts. This was the Forth Rail Bridge that Michael was attempting to assemble. He consulted a diagram that had accompanied the box of parts and then took out some tiny nuts and bolts and laid them beside a number of small lengths of metal of varying sizeslengths, the longest six inches ,- the smallest about an inch and a half. Each contained a regular pattern of holes so that it could be attached to the partly assembled bridge and fixed into place using the nuts and bolts.

He picked up a piece of metal and began to attach another section, his mind still on the events of the last hour. But soon he became engrossed in his task and the semi-trance, the plight of his great Aunt Gertrude, and his concerns about his mother’s health, moved to the far recesses of his consciousness.

Twenty minutes later his mother called him for his dinner. His father was in the dining room when he went in. He greeted the boy, and then, instead of interrogating him about his day as he usually did, he conducted a quiet conversation with Mrs Dawson. When she went out to the kitchen to fetch plates of hot food for them, his father remained silent. He looked pensive, as if he had something weighty on his mind.

As they ate, the conversation was desultory, something Michael didn’t mind as it meant he wasn’t the focus of attention. When the meal was over, he gave his mother a hand to wash up. While they were doing so, his father took the car and set out for Daisy Hill hHospital in Newry to see great Aunt Geraldine and the reason for his sober mood was revealed.

A short time later Michael decamped to his