Page 10 of Healing Hearts on Thistledown Lane: Part 3
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press, thank you for joining us this evening for an evening of spinechilling tales,’ he said, his voice carrying effortlessly in the cavernous room. ‘I hope you enjoy getting to know the castle’s ghosts. I’m going to leave you in the very capable hands of our guides, Catriona and Fraser, for the tour. I hope you all survive.’
Laughter broke out as glasses were placed on the nearest available surfaces and an expectant hum filled the air. Fraser recognised his cue. Taking a moment to appreciate the weight of Maura’s gift as it nestled against his kilt, he took a breath. ‘Gather close, unhappy friends,’ he began, in a low confiding tone that nevertheless commanded the attention of everyone in the room. ‘No, closer than that. You do not know it yet but by the end of this evening, some of you may owe your lives to the person next to you.’
Again, there was laughter, but it was laced with the faintest edge of tension and some of them did shuffle nearer to each other. He raised his head, taking the measure of his audience the way he did every night. But these were not credulous visitors to the city, eager to drink in the stories he told. They were hard-bitten journalists, many of them born and bred in Edinburgh and well versed in the city’s legends. If he wanted to impress them, he was going to have to up his game. ‘You might think you know this castle. You might have walked her ramparts and heard the terrible events that have taken place over the centuries. You might tell yourself they’re just words, stories to entertain fools, that the mournful sigh you hear is only the wind.’ He paused, his stare deep and fathomless. ‘We’ll see if you still believe that by the end of the tour.’
Beside him, Catriona raised her lantern. ‘Come with us now, and be sure not to tarry. You never know who – or what – might be following.’
More nervous laughter. Fraser made a mental note to compliment Catriona later – her timing and wary tone had both been perfect. He couldn’t see Maura, assumed she was loitering near the back of the group, where Ewan was bringing up the rear. But he couldn’t fret about her now. Turning on his heel, he strode towards the door.
They began in the vaults, where Fraser told the story of Davey Bowen, apprentice to the castle’s blacksmith. The armies of the English were terribly near, and the forge raged bright and hot, day and night, to provide weapons for the coming battle. ‘The smith and his men were exhausted, suffocated by smoke and near the end of their strength,’ Fraser said, as a hidden projector sent fiery red flames licking up the walls behind him. ‘And still the army demanded more swords. When Davey cried out that he could do no more, one of the lords became enraged. He struck Davey across the head, sending him tumbling into the fire. Screaming in agony, his arms ablaze, he fell to the floor, but the lord drew his sword and struck at anyone who went to his aid.’ Fraser gazed around at the silent faces. ‘As he burned, Davey laid a terrible curse on the lord and all those present, that their deaths be as terrible and agonising as his own.’ He paused, took a breath. ‘Ever since, there have been reports of a leather-aproned man walking the corridors between vaults, weeping with pain. Some mention a tingling in their arms, as though seared by heat. Others report a malign presence watching them. I cannot say if what they feel is true. What is clear is that these vaults are not a place to linger.’
By the light of Catriona’s raised lantern, Fraser saw Deborah Jordan clutch uneasily at her arm. Hiding a smile, he led the way towards their next location, the corridor where the Grey Lady was said to roam, railing against her tortured death. Lady Janet’s was a grimly familiar tragedy – caught up in the intrigues of powerful men, she was accused and convicted of witchcraft and burned at the stake outside the castle. Visitors and staff members had reported seeing her shadowy figure walking throughout its walls, leaving a ferocious chill in her wake.
Outside, in the dimly lit garden where the bones of soldiers’ beloved pets had been laid to rest over the centuries, Fraser described the ghostly black dog frequently seen stalking the battlements, imparting a sense of impending doom on all those who failed to look away. He was acutely aware of where Maura stood, silent and listening, and had to battle the temptation to let his gaze rest solely on her as he spoke. But the moment passed, and on the ramparts, he recounted the legend of the spectral drummer boy, who had appeared, headless and wraithlike on the battlements, to rattle out the same insistent rhythm as Oliver Cromwell’s armies had laid siege to the castle.
By the time they reached the final location, Fraser judged his audience to have suspended all disbelief. Their expressions were rapt as he faced them beside the bars of the castle dungeons. ‘Our final tale is perhaps the most poignant,’ he warned. ‘It concerns a network of secret tunnels that were uncovered beneath this very floor, leading under the Royal Mile and supposedly all the way to Holyroodhouse Palace. No one knows how the discovery came to be made but the entrance was very small, only wide enough to allow the slender figure of a young piper through. The boy was told to follow where the tunnel led, piping as he went so that the men above could trace his path. And for a while, the pipes could plainly be heard. Past St Giles’ Cathedral, the wailing faint but unmistakeable, and on to Tron Kirk. With chilling abruptness, the sound stopped and no amount of shouting could raise a reply from the piper.’ Fraser paused, allowing the silence in the dungeon to deepen the atmosphere. ‘When the men broke into the tunnel to look for the boy, they found it was empty. They searched for days without finding the slightest trace he had ever been there. Eventually, the city council ordered the tunnel sealed, which is how it remains to this day. Only sometimes, when the roar of traffic fades and modern life draws back, a plaintive sound can be heard drifting upwards along the Royal Mile. The mournful lament of a lone piper, desperate to be heard and remembered beneath the city streets.’
The light in the dungeon had been growing gradually dimmer as he told the tale. Now, a barely audible melody began to haunt the air, thin and wistful and somehow yearning. Fraser felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle and he had to fight the urge to glance behind him. He’d read the piper’s story over and over in preparation, knew the music he was hearing was only a recording, being played as part of the event, just as the lights had grown dim on schedule. And yet it seemed to him that there was something more contributing to the atmosphere in the dungeon, an uneasiness he couldn’t quite explain.
Catriona stepped forward, her lantern raised. ‘Thank you, Fraser. I don’t know about all of you but I’m in need of a glass of something fortifying. Shall we make our way to the Great Hall?’
Usually, Fraser’s tours finished with a round of applause, but that wasn’t what happened once Catriona finished speaking. Instead, a muted muttering began, as though those present were coming back to themselves. In fact, it wasn’t until Ewan began to clap that the spell truly seemed to break. The applause felt too loud in the confines of the dungeon and Fraser was at pains to wave it away. ‘Thank you. Now, let’s head upstairs.’
Maura waited behind, beaming at him as the others filed along behind Catriona and her bobbing light. ‘You were brilliant,’ she said, squeezing his arm. ‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep tonight but your storytelling was incredible.’
The warmth behind the words almost made Fraser flush. ‘Thanks. That means a lot.’
‘You had the whole room believing the ghost of that poor boy is still trapped under the Royal Mile,’ she went on as they followed the others. ‘Even though the story is so full of holes you could sieve flour through it.’
Fraser grimaced. ‘You noticed that?’
‘How did they know where the tunnel went if the entrance was too narrow for anyone but the piper to fit through?’ she said. ‘And if they could widen the entrance when the boy disappeared, why didn’t they just do that in the first place?’
He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Don’t ask me. I wasn’t there.’
‘I think he realised it was a fool’s errand and found another exit,’ Maura went on. ‘He probably lived a long and happy life somewhere a long way from Edinburgh.’
‘I like that ending better,’ Fraser said, smiling. ‘Doesn’t explain the ghostly piping, mind.’
‘No,’ she conceded. ‘But if everything could be explained, you wouldn’t have a job.’
Fraser inclined his head. ‘And we wouldn’t be working together, and I wouldn’t have my very own Maura McKenzie original to remind me of this evening. Thank you again for that.’
She nodded. ‘It’s just a wee thing. Did it help?’
‘More than you know,’ he said honestly. ‘Catriona was impressed too. I’ve got a feeling Ewan McRae is going to be even more interested in your work after tonight.’
Chapter Four
‘Hello? Earth to Maura, are you receiving us?’
It took Maura several seconds to realise Effie was speaking to her. She looked up from the plate she was glazing to see all three pottery students observing her with varying degrees of subtlety. Cordelia was frowning down at the clay before her but darted a curious glance Maura’s way. Sharon had stopped her habitual humming along to the radio, while Effie was staring with her head cocked, not in accusation but in mild concern. A bubble of consternation burst in Maura’s stomach as she realised she’d missed Effie’s question. ‘Sorry,’ she said, offering an apologetic smile. ‘Did you need something?’
Effie pursed her lips. ‘A winning lottery ticket, new knees and a husband who knows how to put the toilet seat down,’ she said. ‘But what I actually wanted to know is whether everything is okay. You’re very quiet today.’
‘Not that you’re ever noisy,’ Cordelia clarified. ‘But you seem a bit preoccupied. Not quite with us.’
‘You do keep sighing, though,’ Sharon said.
