The Castle of the Demon Read online

  The Castle of the Demon

  Reginald Hill

  For Jean and Leslie

  1

  It had been a stupid thing to do, the quarry decided, crouching in the shadow on the deep side of the groyne.

  He should have waited. He didn’t believe in this need for desperate haste.

  Not, of course, that it would be accounted ‘desperate’ by those who instigated it. Just a necessary acceleration of tempo.

  ‘They’ weren’t crouched in this hollow, stinking of rotten seaweed, straining hearing through the low sullen roar of the sea and the beat of the racing heart for the sounds which would warn of pursuit.

  Nothing.

  Time to move.

  He flipped easily, quickly, over the groyne, grunting as the ground met him earlier than he expected.

  Still no sound behind. Perhaps he had made it. But it was too early to escape.

  God! how his heart was going.

  The pursuer, two groynes further up-tide, had seen the shadow flicker momentarily over the dimly silhouetted line. He nodded approvingly. A lesson well learnt. It was too early to close in. Or perhaps too late. He wished he knew which.

  The quarter-moon was licked out of the sky by a tongue of black cloud.

  Now he’d go. He rose slowly to follow. From ahead came a clink of stone moved sharply against stone.

  Careless. Very careless. Marks lost there.

  Or perhaps marks gained. He might be very, very good, this fellow.

  That should fetch him, thought the quarry. Now let’s see if he’s as good as he makes out. The thing is, he can afford not to be. You, he told himself contemptuously, you can be bloody brilliant and it matters not a toss. You’re expendable. His heart felt as if it was trying to burrow its way out of his chest down into the sand beneath him.

  He rose and moved in perfect silence to the next groyne. Over it in one silken movement. He didn’t pause this time, but moved rapidly parallel to it down to the water. The last five or six yards, as the groyne buried itself in the sand, he slithered on his belly, pushing himself along with his elbows.

  Try that for size, clever man.

  From fifty yards out in the water the pursuer watched his quarry’s entry with interest. He waited till he surfaced and began to swim steadily with the outgoing tide before making his presence known with a slap on the water.

  Now let’s see you run! he thought.

  It was a test of speed now. The quarry swam well, his face buried deep in the water coming up for air on every fourth stroke, catching a brief glimpse of the little township which lay up against the seaside, one or two lights still twinkling, before it moved back into the darkness behind.

  Twice he tried evasion. Once hanging on to a large piece of driftwood, the second time diving deep, deep. Staying there till his lungs threatened to burst and his crazy heart became erratic in its beat. Then he surfaced.

  The pursuer was there, waiting for him. Never closing, always near.

  So it was speed or nothing.

  Was it worth it? Was it worth what? Anything. Anything. Would anyone even know?

  His arms rose and fell like the flails of a paddleboat. He suddenly had a sense of not moving, of remaining constantly in the same place despite all his efforts. There was nothing to mark his progress against. He could see nothing of sky or shore. He shook his head violently to clear the salt water from his eyes but everything remained blurred. Only his heart was moving. It was rising up through his throat. It was swelling inside him. He felt its wild beating everywhere.

  The pursuer saw his arms go up. Then he disappeared.

  For a few moments the pursuer trod water, suspecting another attempt at evasion. Suddenly worried, he dived deep.

  He had to dive three times before he found him.

  Minutes later he dragged him up on a rock-strewn beach.

  He was dead beyond the reach of any human kiss of life.

  A pity.

  There was little room on his clothing to carry anything. A couple of pouches at his waist. Both empty.

  He ran a knife down the skin-tight suit to facilitate taking it off. It unpeeled like the skin of a banana.

  It contained nothing.

  Nothing except the pale, fragile, curiously small body which lay at his feet on the sand.

  For a moment he thought of taking the corpse back into the sea with him. Then he shrugged.

  Why bother? The sea wouldn’t want him. Better to leave him here where he would be found most like a man.

  He rolled the mutilated suit up into a tight ball and fastened it by two loose straps to his wrist. It was a nuisance, but safer that way.

  He turned to face the sea. It looked very uninviting. Suddenly he felt tired and cold. But walking back along the shore was out of the question, even along here.

  He waded reluctantly out into the water and began to swim steadily against the outgoing tide. It was going to be a long haul.

  And he was still not certain if he’d done a good night’s work or not.

  2

  The sun had been perilously hot all day. For several hours, as though urged on by some primal sympathy, the sea had been edging its way towards the figure which lay burning on the sand, its only protection from the heat two scraps of flowered cloth. Once it had moved, turned floppily over on its back, arms slack, legs asprawl. But that had been two hours ago.

  Now it lay quite quite still.

  The sea was still twenty yards away, hardly clear of the smooth round stones which had scraped and rolled in the undertow for so long. Now they too were still and there was scarcely any forward ripple of waves. What movement there was no longer ran a new line of dampness along the sand. In a minute it would not even reach the full extent of the old line.

  For a moment the water stood absolutely still. Nothing moved in sea, sky, or shore. Then the sea wrinkled its skin to shake off a puff of breeze.

  It was not going to reach the figure. Not this time. There would be other times. It could wait. It shrugged a larger swell which broke in foam along the shore, and went into retreat. Immediately the breeze returned to the attack, grew into a wind, trailed an edge of grey cloud over the sun and ruffled the long yellow hair which lay like a sunburst round the figure’s still head, bringing coldness where the sea had not been able to reach.

  The girl opened her eyes and sat up.

  The cloud blew by and she shielded her eyes from the sun as though staring out to sea. But her gaze was at first concerned only with herself. Expertly, appreciatively, she examined her body, noting the new patina of brownness the sun had burnt on her already deeply tanned skin. With her thumb she pulled back the bottom of her bikini and smiled at the radiant whiteness of the flesh revealed. It would have been nice if the deep golden-brown tan could have extended all over her body, but it didn’t really matter. She didn’t intend anyone see her with less covering than she had now. Not for a long time.

  Still shading her eyes, she now gazed out over the visibly receding water. Lines of heat danced before her and the distance was becoming hazy, but the Scottish coast was clearly visible. Slowly she turned her gaze along from the distantly majestic cooling towers of Chapel Cross to the gentle swell of Criffel. Then jumping a dozen miles in a flicker of an eyelid she returned to her own side of the water. Here the only sign of human activity was a solitary fisherman by the water’s edge far away to her left. Seated where she was she could see nothing of Skinburness village which lay even further in the same direction, while behind her rose the shelf of turf, gorse and bramble bushes which stretched back a hundred yards or more before it abutted on arable land.

  Looking in this direction, she stood up. Now she could see at a distance of about half a mile the
old house about which her childish imagination had created such fantasies when she first came here nearly twenty years earlier. Built of grey stone it stood solid and square to the shore, its straight lines broken only by the castellation of the roof parapet. It was only a hundred years old at the most she knew now. But between the ages of nine and thirteen for a fortnight each year it had served a variety of purposes, from an ogre’s lair, via an English stronghold against the raiding Scots, to a kind of ultra-romantic Wuthering Heights. Then her mother had died and her father had never brought her here again. By the time she was thirteen she had known it was really a residential college belonging to Cumberland Education Authority. She supposed it still was.

  Beyond it at a much greater distance back towards the village rose the cheerful red turrets of the Solway Towers, a solid-built hotel in Victorian Gothic. But her mind was not concerned with either of these buildings. Her sharp eyes were searching among the clumps of sea-grass for a familiar and distinctive shape.

  ‘Cal!’ she called, clearly but without stridency. ‘Cal! Come on, boy! Where are you?’

  There was no answering noise or movement.

  ‘Cal!’ she called again, more sharply this time. ‘At once!’

  But nothing stirred.

  Puzzled, she began to follow her own tracks back through the sand towards the grass. Clearly marked also were innumerable and very large pawprints, but so confused that it was impossible to say whether they were coming or going. But after a few paces she halted and stared down at the sand, feeling vaguely uneasy.

  Crossing the line of her own prints was another set, neither human nor canine. Wide, deep, beautifully defined hoof-marks. She followed them with her eye and found she turned through a hundred and eighty degrees.

  Someone had ridden a horse down from the grass, circled her sleeping body on the sand at a distance of about fifteen yards, then passed on.

  No, it hadn’t been quite as simple as that, she decided, looking more closely. Here, at a point directly between where she had lain and the sea, the rider had paused. The horse had stood almost still, just shifting enough to interrupt the forward flow of the prints.

  She shivered faintly at the thought of the eyes roaming freely over her unknowing body.

  It’s better than being spied on by some dirty old man lying in the grass, I suppose, she told herself, but instead of reassuring her, the thought only made her swing round to face inland.

  Still nothing moved. She walked back to where she had been lying and gathered her possessions swiftly together. A pair of sunglasses and a white towelling beach-robe she had been using as a pillow. This she draped loosely over her shoulders and set off along the shore in the direction of the village.

  Once she stopped, thinking she had noticed a movement in the grass to her left.

  ‘Cal!’ she shouted again.

  The only reaction was from the fisherman who she noticed on resuming her walk had turned to look at her, attracted by her cry. On an impulse she turned from the line of the shore and moved diagonally across the sand and shingle (which intruded much further up the beach here) towards him. He watched her approach for a moment, then returned to the job of coiling his line at his feet, giving her a chance to study him at leisure. He was young, about thirty she guessed, well built, blond, wearing a broadly checked sports shirt and blue jeans tucked into rubber boots. He was coiling his line with a fluid economy of movement which was pleasing to watch, but he stopped when she was a couple of yards away and smiled at her with a disconcerting boldness.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, her voice pitched more coolly than she had intended. ‘I’ve lost my dog. I wondered if you’d noticed him?’

  ‘Dog?’ he said, still smiling.

  ‘He’s rather large,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t miss him. He’s a kind of Old English Sheepdog.’

  ‘Dog,’ he said again, dropping the question mark and seemingly turning the word over in his mind as though trying to conjure up an image from it.

  For a second she wondered if he was a foreigner, Scandinavian perhaps, having difficulty with the language. But now he laughed.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I was just trying to picture what a kind of Old English Sheepdog looked like. But it doesn’t matter, I’m afraid I haven’t seen any kind of dog. I’m sorry.’

  He studied her as if to gauge how serious a matter this was. He evidently decided it was not yet all that serious.

  ‘In fact,’ he added, kicking an empty fisherman’s sack on the ground between them, ‘I haven’t seen any kind of livestock at all, flesh, fowl or good red herring. Especially not herring.’

  He grinned again. It was a good grin, an honest, rather appealing English grin. She couldn’t imagine how she had thought he might be foreign.

  ‘You didn’t see someone on a horse, then?’ she asked, accepting his invitation to chat.

  ‘On a horse?’ he said.

  Oh dear, she thought. Is he going to echo everything I say?

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ he went on. ‘Why? You haven’t lost someone on a horse as well? You don’t look the careless type.’

  This time she joined in his amusement.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I noticed some hoofprints on the sand back there where I was sunbathing.’

  ‘Then there must have been a horse,’ he said reasonably. ‘It’s just me. Once I set my mind to something, like fishing, for instance, I just don’t notice anything else. You’ve been sunbathing over there, you say, and I didn’t even notice you, which just goes to show!’

  He looked her up and down admiringly.

  ‘But I’m sorry I missed your dog,’ he went on. ‘Will he have gone far?’

  ‘Oh no, I shouldn’t think so. He usually doesn’t stray very far from me at all. That’s what makes it a bit funny. But I’ll probably find him back at the cottage.’

  ‘Cottage?’ he said.

  She didn’t say anything but just looked at him. He looked puzzled, then flushed a little but grinned even more.

  ‘Yes, it’s terrible, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Everyone tells me I’m like an echo. It can be very irritating, I understand.’

  ‘Yes, it can,’ she said.

  ‘But not to everyone. Some people like echoes. Anyway, this isn’t finding your dog, is it? I’ll walk back with you and put my mind to finding him. He doesn’t stand a chance once I do that.’

  Swiftly he bent and scooped up his line and bag.

  ‘My name’s Burgess,’ he said, ‘Arthur Burgess.’

  ‘Salter,’ she replied, with only the slightest hesitation. It would take a little time to get back into the habit of using her maiden name. But Sterne had been insistent on this point. ‘Emily Salter. What are you laughing at?’

  ‘You don’t look like an Emily Salter, somehow. It sounds a bit maiden auntish and you certainly don’t look like a maiden aunt. Sorry. I’m being rude, aren’t I? Forgive me, Miss Emily. Let’s look for your dog.’

  Miss Emily. She glanced at her left hand and clenched her fist. The thin circlet of paler skin on her third finger stood out almost white against the even brown of the rest of her hand.

  They walked along the shore in a silence which became almost companionable after a couple of minutes. The sun was quite low now, shooting a line of varnished brightness up the Solway, laying a golden boundary between England and Scotland. The line of the tide running down to the Irish Sea was obscured by light. Her mind played with the phrase for a moment, then let it be washed away by the gentle lap of the ebbing water which, with their own footsteps, was the only sound. It seemed to merge with the silence rather than break it, just as the buildings that were now in sight seemed to lie flat against the frieze of grass, sea and sky rather than intrude into it.

  ‘I’m at the hotel,’ he said.

  Hotel? she almost replied, but decided she didn’t know him well enough. But already she recognised the tacit assumption somewhere deep in her mind that she would, and the recognition both surprise
d and worried her.

  ‘I have taken a cottage,’ she said. ‘That one, there. The end of Long House.’

  She pointed at the gable end of a rather ancient-looking building, set very low behind a broad sea-wall.

  ‘By yourself?’ he asked non-committally.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’m with Cal.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. No question mark this time, just disappointment.

  ‘My dog,’ she explained.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Your dog. I see. That’s nice. I’m at the hotel myself.’

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘No, I mean by myself. I mean, I’m not with anyone. Does that sound odd?’

  ‘Why should it? Did I sound odd.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘I mean, you’ve got a dog. And a cottage. Why not? On the other hand, a lone man in a hotel. I have a table to myself and I dread to think what the others must think when they look at me at breakfast.’

  ‘Why do it if it’s going to worry you so much?’ she asked.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ he said, a trifle aggressively.

  She glanced at him and shrugged her shoulders. Perhaps she’d been wrong and wasn’t going to know him better. She’d been wrong before.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. Then he laughed with a slightly embarrassed note. ‘There should have been a gang of us. A friend, a couple of girls. But it all fell through for some reason. So I came by myself.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Now you’re echoing me. Hey, does your dog resemble a sort of hairy patchwork pony? If he does, I think he’s got home first.’

  But Emily had already seen him ponderously detach himself from the still distant doorway of the cottage.

  ‘Cal!’ she called, running forward. ‘Cal, boy!’

  At the sound of her voice the huge dog’s tentative steps turned into a majestic gallop and a bark deafening in its joyfulness broke the peace of the evening.

  Burgess looked at the approaching shape and wisely decided to keep out of this welcome-home scene. Cal was indeed a kind of Old English Sheepdog, but somehow or other he had got the legs and quarters of a Great Dane. He flung himself with all the vast muscular power at his disposal on top of Emily, who braced herself like one well practised in meeting such assaults.