“Now, Mr. McGilchrist,” he began. “And so we managed to find you, did we? And doubtless you’re wondering what it’s all about, and you probably think there’s something of a mystery here? Well, so there is, and for me and my partners no less than for yourself.”
“I don’t quite follow,” I answered, searching his face for a clue.
“No, no of course you don’t. Well now, perhaps this will explain it better. It’s a copy of your uncle’s will. As you’ll see, he was rather short on words; hence the mystery. A more succinct document—which nevertheless hints at so much more—I’ve yet to see!”
• • •
“I Gavin McGilchrist,” (the will began) “of Temple House in Lothian, hereby revoke all Wills, Codicils or Testamentary Dispositions heretofore made by me, and I appoint my Nephew, John Hamish McGilchrist of Philadelphia in the United States of America, to be the Executor of this my Last Will and direct that all my Debts, Testamentary and Funeral Expenses shall be paid as soon as conveniently may be after my death.
“I give and bequeath unto the aforementioned John Hamish McGilchrist everything I possess, my Land and the Property standing thereon, with the following Condition: namely that he alone shall open and read the Deposition which shall accompany this Will into the hands of the Solicitors; and that furthermore he, being the Owner, shall destroy Temple House to its last stone within a Threemonth of accepting this Condition. In the event that he shall refuse this undertaking, then shall my Solicitors, Macdonald, Asquith and Lee of Edinburgh, become sole Executors of my Estate, who shall follow to the letter the Instructions simultaneously deposited with them.”
The will was dated and signed in my uncle’s scratchy scrawl.
I read it through a second time and looked up to find Mr. Asquith’s gaze fixed intently upon me. “Well,” he said, “and didn’t I say it was a mystery? Almost as strange as his death…” He saw the immediate change in my expression, the frown and the question my lips were beginning to frame, and held up his hands in apology. “I’m sorry,” he said, “so very sorry—for of course you know nothing of the circumstances of his death, do you? I had better explain:
“A year ago,” Asquith continued, “your uncle was one of the most hale and hearty men you could wish to meet. He was a man of independent means, as you know, and for a good many years he had been collecting data for a book. Ah! I see you’re surprised. Well, you shouldn’t be. Your great-grandfather wrote Notes on Nessie: the Secrets of Loch Ness; and your grandmother, under a pseudonym, was a fairly successful romanticist around the turn of the century. You, too, I believe, have published several romances? Indeed,” and he smiled and nodded, “it appears to be in the blood, you see?
“Like your great-grandfather, however, your Uncle Gavin McGilchrist had no romantic aspirations. He was a researcher, you see, and couldn’t abide a mystery to remain unsolved. And there he was at Temple House, a bachelor and time on his hands, and a marvellous family tree to explore and a great mystery to unravel.”
“Family tree?” I said. “He was researching the biography of a family? But which fam—” And I paused.
Asquith smiled. “You’ve guessed it, of course,” he said. “Yes, he was planning a book on the McGilchrists, with special reference to the curse…” And his smile quickly vanished.
It was as if a cold draught, coming from nowhere, fanned my cheek. “The curse? My family had…a curse?”
He nodded. “Oh, yes. Not the classical sort of curse, by any means, but a curse nevertheless—or at least your uncle thought so. Perhaps he wasn’t really serious about it at first, but towards the end—”
“I think I know what you mean,” I said. “I remember now: the deaths by stroke, by drowning, by thrombosis. My mother mentioned them on her own deathbed. A curse on the McGilchrists, she said, on the old house.”
Again Asquith nodded, and finally he continued. “Well, your uncle had been collecting material for many years, I suspect since the death of your father; from local archives, historical annals, various chronicles, church records, military museums, and so on. He had even enlisted our aid, on occasion, in finding this or that old document. Our firm was founded one hundred and sixty years ago, you see, and we’ve had many McGilchrists as clients.
“As I’ve said, up to a time roughly a year ago, he was as hale and hearty a man as you could wish to meet. Then he travelled abroad; Hungary, Romania, all the old countries of antique myth and legend. He brought back many books with him, and on his return he was a changed man. He had become, in a matter of weeks, the merest shadow of his former self. Finally, nine weeks ago on March 22nd, he left his will in our hands, an additional set of instructions for us to follow in the event you couldn’t be found, and the sealed envelope which he mentions in his will. I shall give that to you in a moment. Two days later, when his gillie returned to Temple House from a short holiday—”
”He found my uncle dead,” I finished it for him. “I see…And the strange circumstances?”
“For a man of his years to die of a heart attack…” Asquith shook his head. “He wasn’t old. What?—an outdoors man, like him? And what of the shotgun, with both barrels discharged, and the spent cartridges lying at his feet just outside the porch? What had he fired at, eh, in the dead of night? And the look on his face—monstrous !”
“You saw him?”
“Oh, yes. That was part of our instructions; I was to see him. And not just myself but Mr. Lee also. And the doctor, of course, who declared it could only have been a heart attack. But then there was the post-mortem. That was also part of your uncle’s instructions…”
“And its findings?” I quietly asked.
“Why, that was the reason he wanted the autopsy, do you see? So that we should know he was in good health.”
“No heart attack?”
“No,” he shook his head, “not him. But dead, certainly. And that look on his face, Mr. McGilchrist—that terrible, pleading look in his wide, wide eyes…”
3. The House
Half an hour later I left Mr. Asquith in his office and saw myself out through the anteroom and into the hot, cobbled road that climbed to the great grey castle. In the interim I had opened the envelope left for me by my uncle and had given its contents a cursory scrutiny, but I intended to study them minutely at my earliest convenience.
I had also offered to let Asquith see the contents, only to have him wave my offer aside. It was a private thing, he said, for my eyes only. Then he had asked me what I intended to do now, and I had answered that I would go to Temple House and take up temporary residence there. He then produced the keys, assured me of the firm’s interest in my business—its complete confidentiality and its readiness to provide assistance should I need it—and bade me good day.
I found Carl Earlman leaning on the esplanade wall and gazing out over the city. Directly below his position the castle rock fell away for hundreds of feet to a busy road that wound round and down and into the maze of streets and junctions forming the city centre. He started when I took hold of his arm.
“What—? Oh, it’s you, John! I was lost in thought. This fantastic view; I’ve already stored away a dozen sketches in my head. Great!” Then he saw my face and frowned. “Is anything wrong? You don’t quite look yourself.”
As we made our way down from that high place I told him of my meeting with Asquith and all that had passed between us, so that by the time we found a cab (a “taxi”) and had ourselves driven to an automobile rental depot, I had managed to bring him fully up to date. Then it was simply a matter of hiring a car and driving out to Temple House…