The Haunting: A Jim Kirkwood Novel

By B. Eugene Ellison

The Haunting, a Jim Kirkwood mystery: Jim is drawn to Scotland by the lure of the Highlands where he hopes to become the laird of a great estate. Kirkwood soon realizes that forces from this world and beyond are trying to manipulate events. Isolated on an island in the Inner Hebrides that is lost in time, a crumbling castle becomes the setting for Jim's encounter with vengeance from beyond the grave. A lethal game of deception, murder, and an ancient curse cast upon the manor quickly cause events to spin out of control. With the help of a mysterious peasant girl, Jim must unravel a centuries-old riddle in time to free the ghost of a beautiful bride who was murdered on her wedding night and avoid joining a long line of victims who have perished by a sword yielded by her long dead bridegroom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 21, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462087884

B. Eugene Ellison

B. Eugene Ellison, FSA Scot., lives in Knoxville, TN. with his wife Susan. After a career in Engineering, Gene now enjoys: writing, painting and travel. The Rings of the Templars is his second Jim Kirkwood adventure novel.

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Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

About the Author

To: Caledonia, the land of mystery and beauty and where my dreams reside.

To: Susan, the light of my life, and my son Jon. A special thanks to Marty Teffe-teller whose keen eyes miss very little and suggestions are warmly welcomed.

CHAPTER 1 

It all started out simply enough.

How much do you want for this? I pointed to a small gold butterfly brooch resting among a number of unrelated trinkets atop a dusty display case.

Saul glanced in my direction, Twenty quid. His voice was crotchety, as dry as an old saddle. It was obvious that he didn’t care if he sold it or not; the brooch was an interesting piece, but not at that price.

Nothing more was said while we continued to wait for a young woman, mid-twenties, short brown hair, to browse her way out of the shop. She moved slowly as if unimpressed by the collection. Finally she worked her way to the door, nodded back in Saul’s direction as if checking for permission to leave, then left. We were alone.

Saul Fletcher’s shop had a feel of undisturbed despair about it, an impression that couldn’t be camouflaged, even within shadows cast by less than ample lighting. He once confided in me, as if bragging, that the gloom added an aura of important to his antiques—an opinion we didn’t share. I continued to look busy, examining baubles that I had seen before, waiting for something to transpire. It was his move and we both knew it. The silence was as if time was standing still.

You ever get anything worth stealing, Saul? I picked up half of a set of brass bookends; its outline was left on the table. Do you ever move any of this stuff, just to make it look like someone might have been interested in it? I picked at him.

He looked at me over his half-rimmed glasses and said nothing, then returned to the National Enquirer.

Saul’s Antique Emporium was an unimpressive hole in the wall on 24th Street, a couple of doors up from the corner of 43rd Avenue in Queens, New York. It was filled with mostly worn out, used furniture that he tried to pawn off as antiques, worthless costume jewelry, and junk from estate sales. Little that would warrant a special trip on Saturday afternoon from Manhattan except for one thing: Saul had the knack of putting his hands on rare artifacts, often obtained through less than honorable channels. He and I had done business before and I was seldom disappointed.

After a minute or two, I grew tired of waiting, playing his game. I had things to do. I don’t have time for this. You implied on the phone you had something that I’d be interested in. What is it? My heart rate rose as he finally put down his paper.

You Yanks are all alike, always in a hurry, no love for time. It’s something you chase, but can never catch. You need to learn to enjoy life, he said in a forlorn tenor, flavored only by his Cockney British accent.

The last thing I bought from him was a small gold chalice: Irish, made about 900 AD. I found out later, through my usually reliable sources, that it had been stolen from the home of some duke in southern France. Before that, a sixteenth century Venetian blue glass vase, origin unknown, which was fine with me.

I waited as Saul went to the front of the store, flipped the OPEN sign around, locked the door and turned out the inadequate florescent lighting. His silhouette was void of detail as he passed before the filthy storefront pane glass beyond the chest high, olive green backdrop curtains that framed his display window. Outside, the midday sun gave the illusion of a hot summer day; only an illusion, for it was unseasonably cold for May: the low forties with a sharp southeasterly wind cutting across the sound from the Atlantic.

After returning to the shabby area behind the counter, he knelt, his back to me, before an old Fargo safe. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but within a moment the distinctive sound of locking devices tracking on steel rack and pinion movements heralded that the safe was open. Seconds later, he rose, turned and laid a heavy gray canvas bag about a foot by fourteen inches on the counter between us. He clicked on the small snake-neck lamp attached to the cash register. Its bright white light reflected off the dingy glass, causing my eyes to squint; I moved slightly to the left, out of the glare.

Saul was a big man, six foot, weighing over 260 pounds. His hair was grayer than black, unkempt like his total appearance. There was nothing appealing about him. A man alone in the world—alone except for his secrets, bad breath and an offensive musk body odor.

Without a word, he pulled back the drawstrings and removed from within the bag a bundle of neatly folded red velvet material. From the way the material lay, it was apparent that there was more than one item carefully wrapped within, protecting the treasures from abrasion. With great care, Saul unrolled the velvet from right to left, exposing first a gold and silver crescent necklace. It was ridged, almost a circle, open about five and a half inches at what had to be the back. On either side of the gap were rams’ heads facing each other. There was a hole in each, allowing for some type of tying device that wasn’t there. The main body of the ring was about three-quarters of an inch in diameter, made to look like woven strands of silver rope. At the center front was a two-inch long cylinder of gold with inlaid silver design, a series of interlocking knots capped at either end by rings of silver. The whole thing was about eight inches in diameter. Saul turned it over; it looked the same.

Celtic. I said with authority. It was a guess.

Comes from Scotland; figure it dates back to about 1100 or so. I cleaned it up a wee bit. The silver was black when I got it; can’t let just anyone try to clean something like this. You’ve got to know what you’re doing. He paused to let me look at it. The silver is good; the gold is better. I’m guessing twenty carets, plus or minus.

Got any idea what part of Scotland—lowlands, highlands, islands?

Somewhere from the western island area; it might not even be Scottish. The Vikings sailed and looted up and down those coasts. Could have been made in Ireland, then acquired. Twelfth century, there wasn’t much distinction in that part of the world. It comes from a couple of resourceful grave robbers.

Grave robbers? Saul usually didn’t offer an inside into his sources.

Yeah, the absolute scum of the earth. Anyone who would dig up the dead for profit will burn in hell. You lay your loved one to rest, sometime sending with them the things they loved and some bastard comes along and steals everything. Rot in hell they will.

I felt a little uncomfortable. Saul’s words were hitting a little too close to home. What else you got? I said without expression as I studied the clock on the wall behind him; I didn’t want to seem too interested.

Saul set the necklace aside before turning the folds of velvet over twice; out slid a small digger in a sheath. It was about seven inches: the handle was antler, possibly deer or elk. Inset in the top of the antler was an ocherous, light golden stone. At first glance it looked like citrine, about three-quarters of an inch across, easily thirty to forty carets. The sheath was blackened leather about an inch and a half across with a gold protective cap at the top and a second one at the tipped

end. In the center of the sheath was a Scottish clan crest, a ring represented by a silver garter without a buckle, encircling a rampart lion facing left, overlaid by a sprig of heather, all atop a Plantagenet crown. Engraved on the garter were the words VITUTEM CORONAT HONOS. I lifted it from its resting place and withdrew the knife from the sheath. The blade was nearly four inches long, made from what looked to be steel. It was tarnished but not rusted.

This is a Scottish sqian dubh, Gaelic for ‘black knife,’ I explained to Saul, a small hidden weapon carried centuries ago for protection. It was often hidden in one’s hosiery. When Scots dress in their regalia today, they still carry one but nothing like this one. I turned it over and looked at the backside. Nothing to compare to the front. This looks like Latin rather than Gaelic; any idea what it says? I asked.

Not a clue and don’t give a damn. These two items came from the same place, superb quality, untraceable, and what’s more, there could be more to come. You interested? He smiled, knowing the answer.

Saul allowed me the next few minutes to study the two items. The necklace was silver with inlaid gold, the cylinder more gold than silver and very beautiful. Yet unless the workmanship could be dated, I couldn’t see how the age of this one could be verified. The sqian dubh was different. The leather outer cover and the wooden sheath that it was attached to could be carbon dated. If they came from the same place, the same graveyard, much could be learned. After going back and forth between the two, I asked him again if he knew where they were from. This time he just said no. Then I said the magic words, How much?

Won’t jack you around, as you’d say. I could get about forty ‘k’ for the two, but I’m a little short of funds right now; got a shipment coming COD in a couple of weeks or so. I can let you have the two for $25,000. Best offer.

That was too much, too rich for my blood. I waited as if considering the offer, Damn, Sauly, I so wanted to do business with you. These things are nice but not really what I want to spend my money on. You understand. What the hell would I do with them? I’ve got a nice sqian dubh already and as for the necklace, it just wouldn’t look right on my girlfriend’s neck. She’s kinda petite. Besides this looks more like something a man would wear. It’s just not my style. Honestly, I’m not sure these things will fit into my collections.

Nothing else was said for what seemed like a long time. I picked up the knife and studied the crest. It wasn’t familiar, not that I have a comprehensive knowledge of clan crests, but I’ve seen a few. My Scottish roots are on my mother’s side. Her maiden name was McLarren and my grandmother’s was Macmillan. Neither of their family crests, or more correctly family badges, looked like this one.

Besides, a garter without the buckle indicated that it belonged to the chief of the clan. Clan members’ badges always have buckles. This was a more important piece than Saul realized.

Jim, you know I wouldn’t try to get any more out of these pieces than what I have to have. I’ve got overhead; this stuff doesn’t come cheap.

I smiled at him, then slipped into a look of reserved contemplation, allowing him to think I was being moved. Bull…shit…, Saul, you’ve got a man somewhere in the UK who picks up this stuff for pennies on the dollar. His eyes narrowed as I continued. You smuggle it here, somehow, most likely hidden in shipments of this so-called antique furniture. $25,000 is a joke and you know it. I don’t know that this stuff is as old as you say it is. It all looks too clean to me. There aren’t any wear marks; it just doesn’t feel right. Besides you haven’t told me shit, not enough to make an informed decision. This time I looked at my watch; Saul looked pissed as if I’d insulted him. "I’ve got to go. Sheila and I are going to the theater tonight, either Angels in America or Damn Yankees then out to dinner. I returned the sqian dubh to the bed of velvet and turned toward the door. Let me out."

Saul let me walk a few steps toward the door before saying, The best I can do is $20,000. He countered my exit "$17,500 and you throw in the brooch I was looking at. I think Sheila will like

it."

Again silence fell over the darkened antique shop. The stinky, graying Englishman, who was about to add selling of stolen goods to his long list of indiscretions, shifted his weight from foot to foot as if trying to tip the scales of justice. You’re tough; I’m just a small business man trying to eke out a living in this great country. Do you like that chiffonier? He pointed to a narrow, high chest of drawers standing near the front door. I looked at it from where I stood without commenting. "It’s eighteen century French, a fine piece of furniture, rosewood inlaid with poplar. I can have it delivered to your place in Atlanta next week, COD—a cashier check for $18,500. You’ll find it’s a remarkable example of Normandy craftsmanship, especially the dovetailing of the area behind the third drawer from the top.

I see what you mean, I paused for a moment. I’ll take it. I walked over and slipped the butterfly brooch into the pocket of my coat.

Little more was said. Saul had sold me furniture before. He knew where to send it and I knew what I needed to do. Before I left, he reminded me that he was sure that he was going to get more furniture that I might like, that he would be in touch.

Funny as it seems the up charge that he hits me with for the furniture isn’t all that bad. I don’t know about this chiffonier but the last small English writing desk I received, I resold to a dealer in Bunkhead for twice what I paid him for it. Such was life.

I left Saul’s shop a little after three. As I walked down toward 43rd Avenue, the smell of corn beef, cabbage and sewer water slapped me in the face, then disappeared. At the corner, I started trying to hail a taxi. The second one stopped. I was only a mile or so from the Mark Hotel on East 77th Street; I knew the cab ride was going to cost me more than I felt it was worth, but the wind was cutting and cold.

As we pulled away from the curb, I pulled one of my business cards from my pocket and began sketching the clan badge that I had just seen. I drew a circle, then a circle inside that one. Inside the inner ring a five pointed crown with a rampart lion facing left overlaid by a sprig of heather, then I added the words VITUTEM CORONAT HONOS. It sure looked like Latin to me. After checking my work, I slipped the card back into my pocket, then withdrew the butterfly brooch. Sheila would like this; she was easy to please, surprisingly low maintenance for one so beautiful.

CHAPTER 2 

Sheila and I returned to Atlanta the next evening. New York was a great getaway. Sheila had insisted that we see Angels in America; I was bored. Best I can remember she had to wake me twice but I didn’t care; I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Afterwards, we partied until the sun began to smile on the city.

This would be a good time to introduce myself. My name is James Kirkwood; most people call me Jim, not much of a stretch. Through an incredible chain of events that I won’t go into now, about twelve years back, I came into a small fortune, then built on it. It’s no longer small. To the amazement and often amusement of those who care, for the last few years I have spent about half my time milking cash out of my investments and dreaming up schemes to keep Uncle Sam from getting any of it. This leaves me with time for things I really love: painting, a hobby that I’ve been attempting to master for several years with growing success; rummaging around looking for the extraordinary, the unusual and unexpected; and quests, which from time to time have become adventures in the mildest sense of the word, adventures that have, more often than not, proven not only to be astounding but profitable as well.

I admit I’m beginning to reach middle age, not old by any stretch of the imagination. It is said that you’re only as old as you feel, and I feel young. At six-foot and 164 pounds, my forty-five years have been good to me. I’m less blonde now than I was in my youth, a strange touch of gray here and there but definitely quite fair. Gentle hazel eyes that take on a bluish tint when I’m content. Women have always considered me handsome but I’m not the kind of guy they’d chase. Having a shy side, not really forthcoming when it comes to women, I can honestly say that I have never had to fight off the fairer sex, but then again, I’ve never been

alone either. Like so many, I guess you might say that when it comes to women, I have individual appeal rather than universal.

My last noteworthy escapade occurred about fifteen months ago after I opened a dusty old camelback trunk brought to the American Colonies from Scotland following the failed Jacobite rebellion of 1746. It belonged to an old friend, Chubby MacLarren, who had passed away. Most of its contents were personal in nature with little value to anyone except Chubby. Most but not all—the trunk contained hidden secrets. The adventure that followed forever forged me to Scotland and Iain MacLeod. It was from him that I first heard about Coulgask castle and its estate, which is what this entire story is about.

Iain can only be described as Machiavellian, a resourceful entrepreneur in his own right. His Scottish ancestry is impeccable. Among the more impressive, he is the 29th Chief of the Clan MacLeod, Laird of MacLeod, and Baron of Dunve-gan. Our association is based upon mutual admiration, flavored by a less than honorable secret or two. Let’s just say we’re friends bound together by our own deeds. He and I enjoyed a most intriguing and profitable quest that netted me a king’s ransom and a gut filled with the fire of revenge. Again that’s a story for another day.

As you might surmise, after Sheila and I returned to Atlanta, I spent the better part of a day unsuccessfully researching the clan badge design. In frustration, I decided to fax a copy of my sketch to Iain. I figured if he didn’t recognize it, he would know who would. All I had been able to find out was that the inscription was Latin and it read Honor Crowns Virtue. By the time I heard back from Iain, almost a week had passed.

It wasn’t until early in the morning of Saturday, May 21st. that the phone rang, waking me from a dead to the world morning after a too long of a night before. Over the next ten minutes, Iain gave me the broad stroke facts about what he had found, promising to fax the details.

Iain was sure that the badge belonged to the MacCalum family and was greatly surprised that such an artifact existed. The inset within the badge represented the joining of the houses of Steward, MacCalum and Drummond. What was strangest, according to Iain, was that it wasn’t a real clan anymore. The clan died out, so to say, in the sixteenth century, all except for the clan chief. Legend had it that the first-born, the heir to the title, only came into this world after the death of the father, therefore reducing the family tree to a single branch. As far as Iain had been able to find out, the legend was true and the single birth phenomenon had remained unbroken until a couple of years ago when the Baron died without a bun in the oven, so to say. He left behind a crumbling castle known as

Coulgask, its impoverished island estate, and a mountain of debts and unpaid taxes. This dubious inheritance fell into the hands of, or should I say on the heads of, a small group of cloister monks living out their days in prayer and service, living in an ancient monastery built on the island of Iona, Scotland. It seems that Sir David, the last of the MacCalum clan, had been a priest.

Iain described Coulgask castle as a crumbling edifice to Scottish nobility. Standing against ancient and long forgotten foes, it towers over the strait between the Isle of Mull on the western coast of Scotland and its domain, the Isle of Crinan. The first real castle to appear on the site was nothing more than a wooden motte and bailey constructed in 1249.

A hundred years later, Lady Matilda, grand niece of Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland, and her husband Colin Drummond of the great Clan Drummond, were granted all the lands, estates and titles of the island of Crinan and those of its neighbor island of Manx to the southwest and east of the coast of the Isle of Mull. Drummond became the 6th Knight of Manx and the 1st Baron of Crinan as well as the Protector of Iona. Coulgask became their home.

Though the next seven decades, under successive barons of Crinan, the castle was gradually rebuilt in stone following the architecture of the Beauchamp’s great castle at Warwick on the River Avon. By the 15th century it was a formidable fortress and the stronghold of the prosperous Clan MacCalum. Five hundred years later, after centuries of rebellions, wars, famines, and mismanagement, it was without a laird. What’s more, it was for sale, somewhere in the neighborhood of 286,000 pounds—a mere half of a million US dollars.

Besides the castle, everything owned by the family came in the purchase price: Crinan and Manx islands, the lands, the towns (not that there were any to speak of), and the titles. Scottish peerage is considered to be tangible property, salable to the highest bidder. A bargain, he reminded me, even with an ancient family curse and the legend of a ghost or two—if you believe in such things, which I don’t.

I hung up and lay back down. Sheila hadn’t moved a muscle. I closed my eyes and returned to the small hours of the morning and the undisturbed silence that filled the rooms of my home in the suburbs of Atlanta, but I was unable to slip back to sleep. My mind raced with the possibilities as the serenity was shattered by the predictable Westminster refrain coming from the nineteenth century grandfather clock downstairs as it echoed the coming of six a.m.

As I lay in the gray morning light, the silence in the bedroom had a solitude all its own, interrupted only by the faint sound of my lover’s breathing. Quietly, I turned away from the blond tussle of hair that crowned the sleeping beauty

beside me, and gazed at the pale shapes across the room without paying attention to their form. Normal movements didn’t disturb Sheila. She sleeps through my getting in or out of bed, turning on the TV, almost anything, but turning off the lights or the slightest strange sound from downstairs, either will bring her to full attention. It makes no sense to me. She would sleep until noon every day if I let her. Her peaceful tranquility in the morning hours made for a comfortable relationship. I’m usually up with the sun, run five miles if it isn’t raining, then return home to put on a pot of coffee and read the Journal. Then after a quick shower, I return to bed, waking her with kisses and more. What more could a man ask for? Today wouldn’t be typical; it is raining.

I bought my house in Sandy Springs, a suburb of Atlanta, in 1979. From the street, the house appears to be two stories sitting on a gentle rise, but in reality, it’s three. The lower