Prologue

1685

There was a light wind from the sea as they led her down to the mudflats. The thin shift she wore offered little protection from the cool evening air. After the elders had completely their sacred duty they retreated back to the harbour and surveyed the scene from a distance. The maid looked out to the water. Had the tide turned yet, she mused. Was it in ebb or flow? She knew not but she would find out soon enough. She wished she could forgive her unknown accusers. Who had disliked her so much that they had witnessed against her? Maybe it was jealousy of her good looks. She would never know. Was the water a little closer now? Yes, the tide was coming in. How long would it be before the water splashed over her bare feet? An hour? Two hours? When the time comes, as it surely will, should she surrender herself to the waves or would she fight for every last breath? The cool air made her shiver. An elder put the question again: “Will you repent? Will you swear The Oath of Abjuration?”

Ailsa’s Story

2019

I am thirty-one years old and my name is Ailsa Graham. You will immediately recognise that as a Scottish name but you would be wrong to assume that I am Scottish. Actually, I am a Londoner, but the Grahams are very proud of their Scottish Ancestry. My dad, Duncan, served in the navy and his hobby is playing the bagpipes, much to the chagrin of our neighbours. He tells stories about how he took his bagpipes on board ship with him facing down threats from his shipmates to throw him and his so and so bagpipes overboard. One of his proudest moments was when his ship docked at Dundee in Scotland and the ship was greeted by the local pipe band. Dad could not resist the temptation to join in. He was delighted when the band invited him to join them and made him an honorary life member. The framed certificate authenticating his honorary membership of the Dundee Pipe Band is proudly displayed above the fireplace in the family lounge. I digress, but I hope I have conveyed the importance the Grahams place on their Scottish roots.

I need hardly say that a Scottish forename is almost compulsory for Graham children. At 31 my surname is still Graham as I have never married. I have had some long-term relationships but none led to marriage. Some I look back on fondly and others I would prefer to forget. Regrettably it is the ones I’d prefer to forget that stick in my memory. That goes in spades for my most recent partner, Jack. I will not print his surname but I left in a hurry, throwing a few things in a suitcase and walking right out after a blazing row. I won’t go into details but there was I, working my behind off to provide a decent home for us while Jack spent his time propping up the bar at The Fox and Hounds. When he struck up more than a platonic friendship with Sonia, the barmaid, well that was it. I left. Never say never, but I have no plans to get into another relationship any time soon.

My job as a representative for a pharmaceutical company gives me plenty of travel opportunities. On reflection I suppose that was part of the trouble, it gave Jack too much time on his lonesome.

I get to all parts of the UK and occasionally I even get to travel abroad. You can imagine my pleasure when I learned that my company wanted me to travel to Edinburgh and other Scottish towns that I had never heard of. My dad is retired now and for two pins would have travelled with me to renew his contact with ‘The Auld Country.’

As my trip to Edinburgh drew closer dad became ever more enthusiastic. “If you manage to get over to the Dumfries and Galloway area, you’ll find there are a lot of Grahams residing in the locality.” he reminded me for the umpteenth time. Then he dangled an irresistible bait that the crafty old bloke knew I would find hard to resist: “Have you heard of Wigtown?” I wrinkled my brow and pondered the question.

“Can’t say I have. Why?”

“Huh!” My dad grunted. “Surprised at you, Miss Bookworm. Not having heard of Wigtown. It’s only the book capital of Scotland.”

Dad knows I love browsing second-hand book stores but I confess, up to my dad mentioning the place, I had never heard of Wigtown. “How did you know about Wigtown, Dad?”

Duncan Graham arched a bushy eyebrow. “Google, love. Us oldies can use the internet too you know. Actually, I was googling the name Graham in Scotland and discovered that the Grahams came from Wigtownshire and Wigtown is the main town there. I soon discovered its claim to fame is its bookshops and annual book festival.”

I was impressed. “You surprise me dad. You have hidden talents.”

“You’d better believe it love,” chuckled the old man.

The day finally arrived. Mum and Dad drove me to Kings Cross Station for the trains heading north. After five hours the Edinburgh train pulled in at Waverley Station. There was a light drizzle as I walked out onto the station concourse. A lone piper was braving the elements, playing an air on his bagpipes. Welcome to Bonny Scotland.

I was fortunate to find a line of taxis waiting for passengers. I approached the driver of the lead vehicle and asked if he knew where the MacDonald Holyrood Hotel was.

“Och Aye Lassie. Why that’s only the finest hotel in the city. Jump in Lassie and I’ll have ye there in no time.”

The administrative department at Global Pharmaceuticals is surprisingly quite good at organising logistics for us itinerant reps. The MacDonald Holyrood Hotel had been selected because of its location near the city centre.

The hotel is very modern. I was thankful to get into my room and discover that my case had arrived before me, having been delivered as I was booking in at the reception desk. Feeling stale after hours of travelling I showered and changed and felt a lot better. My room had complimentary coffee and little packets of Scottish Shortbread shaped like thistles. As I drank the coffee (not too good) and nibbled the shortcake (very good) I picked up the guest information brochure.

The brochure informed me that I was ideally situated to explore the city. I am apparently only two minutes’ walk from The Palace of Holyrood House, the seat of the Scottish Monarchy, before the Scottish and English crowns were combined. The brochure assured me that I was very close to The Royal Mile, the famous route that, via a series of streets, connects Holyrood House with Edinburgh Castle, the huge fortification that stands on Castle Rock, an extinct volcano. At 1 pm every day a field gun is fired to mark the hour. The tradition started in 1861 as a way for mariners to set their clocks, essential for navigation. I learned that my hotel is in the Medieval Old Town, a UNESCO Heritage site. A short distance away is the magnificent Georgian New Town, another UNESCO heritage site. The brochure left me dizzy. So much to see, so little time.

After a light dinner at the hotel, I donned my parka and wandered out into the cool evening air. I clutched a folded city map, courtesy of the hotel and followed the directions to the castle. It took only a few minutes through the streets of the Old Town to see the castle illuminated against the night sky. It looked so solid that it surely must stay in place for ever. The streets were busy with tourists. The hotel brochure informed me that after London, Edinburgh was the most popular tourist destination in the UK. Many of the pubs and bistro style cafes had tables outside, spilling onto the sidewalks. These were often, but not exclusively occupied by smokers banished to the outside because of the rules against smoking inside public places. Many tourists enjoyed watching the streams of sightseeing visitors making their way along the Royal Mile. I didn’t stay long. I had a busy day ahead of me. By 10.30 I was snug in the generous double bed at The MacDonald Holyrood.

My meeting with Dr Iain Brodie at the Edinburgh University was scheduled for 10am. The faculty of medicine is in Little France Crescent, a relatively short distance from my hotel but rather than risk getting lost in my hire car, I asked reception to book me a taxi. I found the ‘full Scottish Breakfast’ rather heavy going, even without the black pudding which looked a bit suspect to me.

As the taxi took me to Little France Crescent, I had the opportunity to take in the beautiful architecture that earned Edinburgh’s Sobriquet: Athens of The North. That was another snippet of information from the guide provided by the hotel. The taxi dropped me at the Faculty of Medicine ten minutes early, giving me time to check my appearances in the rest room before announcing my arrival at the reception desk. “Dr Brodie will be with you in a moment, Miss Graham.”

I had hardly taken a seat and began to browse a copy of The Lancet when a tall, bearded man wearing a tweed jacket, khaki chinos and leather brogues strode into the reception area. “Ah, Miss Graham Is it? I’m Iain Brodie. Pleased to meet you.”

To tell the truth I was a bit nervous about this meeting. I am in sales, not the technical department. Global Pharmaceuticals is getting very cost conscious these days and saw the chance of killing two birds with one stone. The firm had provided a research grant to Edinburgh University and the CEO had requested that I included a visit to the University in my itinerary. If Dr Brodie was too technical I would be lost and look foolish.

I need not have worried. Iain, as he insisted I call him, was a charming host. He looked rather like an older version of Prince Harry with his red beard. He had prepared a bound report on the research project he was leading and took me through a power-point presentation, which, to my amazement I was mostly able to understand. Finally, after about an hour he said, “So you see, Ailsa, how very important it is that we progress our research into a new generation of antibiotics.” Dr Brodie glanced at his watch. “It’s about lunch time, Ailsa. Can I get you a bite to eat unless,” he hesitated “unless you already have plans?”

I looked at Dr Brodie. It was hard to estimate his age with the beard, but I would guess he was in his mid-forties. “That’s very good of you Dr Brodie, but I had the most enormous breakfast which I really aren’t used to and...”

“Well okay, Ailsa, if you’re sure but look, here’s my card. I insist that you give me a ring before you go back home. If you have any questions about our research, I could answer them then. Also, if you need any help during your stay do give me a ring.”

I decided to walk back to the hotel. I am an idiot, I told myself. I should have accepted Dr Brodie’s offer. I guess I am just too cautious of men after my experience with Jack. After arriving back at MacDonald Holyrood, I began to prepare for my real work of promoting the firm’s products with our major distributors in and around Edinburgh. After that l am hoping to program in a bit of ‘me’ time and do some sight-seeing.

I spent the afternoon checking my Power-Point Presentation, rehearsing my sales pitch and locating the venues I was scheduled to visit. After my evening meal I face-timed home. Dad inevitably monopolised the conversation, eager to know what I thought of ‘The Auld Country.’ I assured him it was every bit as lovely as he had told me.

I smiled to myself as I closed the face time connection. While I had my iPad in my hands I decided to check my emails, Then, on impulse, I clicked on the “What’s New” icon. I have often found some quite useful apps. Recently I downloaded a Quick Scan utility. It had proved its value on a number of occasions when a desk top scanner was not available.

One of the new apps being promoted was called “Spirit Guide.” The blurb promised the app would allow the user to locate the spirits of the departed and communicate with them; a sort of DIY Ghostbusters outfit. One reviewer had written

“I have just downloaded the app and scared myself shitless.”

Despite my better judgement I decided to download the app. I knew it would probably be a load of crap, but I was curious. Once downloaded I was asked to give my permission for the app to have access to the smartphone camera and my location.

Then the app was good to go. So that’s it, the sceptic in me thought a gizmo creates weird effects in the camera, a bit like Pokemon. I snorted with derision but nevertheless was about to activate the app when my mobile phone rang. It was Dr Brodie. Apparently, there was to be a clan social at the university. As a Graham, with distant connections to Scotland he thought I might like to attend.

The event was scheduled for the Saturday evening, just two days before I was due back in London and start back at work on the Monday. I knew dad would never forgive me if I let the chance pass by. Also, I admitted to myself, I did rather like the idea of meeting up with Iain Brodie again.

My newly downloaded app went right out of my mind. Excited as I was following the call from Iain, I almost forgot to check my emails. There was one message from my Head Office. It turned out that the business I was due to visit the day after next had found it necessary to postpone the meeting. I groaned in frustration as my carefully planned itinerary fell apart.

Wait! It wasn’t so bad. If I got my act together I could take a break from work on the suddenly free day and visit Graham territory in Galloway and maybe find those bookshops dad had told me about. I checked the distance from my hotel to Wigtown - a little over 100 miles.

Next, I looked for a place to stay for one night. There are several good hotels and guest houses in Wigtown. I rang the first of several that came up on my google search. I booked a room for one night the following day at The Ben Noch Guest House in South Main Street, Wigtown.

Then, I asked reception to book me a hire car. They promised to have it outside the MacDonald Holyrood at 8.30 the following morning. I figured that if I finished my meeting with McFarlane’s chemists in the morning, I should make it to Wigtown by early evening at the latest. I felt quite elated as I threw a few things into a tote bag ready to put into my hire car the following morning.

The visit to McFarlane’s took less time than I thought. Mr Andrew McFarlane had his order prepared and provided some useful feedback on our products. He readily agreed to place an additional order for a new product line. I was ready to leave at 1130 am, so I immediately set off for Wigtown.

I left Edinburgh, heading south-west along the A702. As I left the environs of the capital city, I was struck with the rural nature of the landscape – the rugged hills of the Lowlands punctuated by small townships, villages and lonely farmhouses. It was late afternoon when I reached Wigtown. I found my hotel, The Ben Noch quiet easily. It was part of a terrace of buildings along the main street of the town.

I parked my rental car in the street outside the guest house and as I walked in through the low front door I noticed chiselled into the stone lintel the figures “1655”. I was met in the hallway by Mrs Hamilton who ran the guest house with her husband and a little help from part time staff.

“Och Lassie, you must be worn out after your journey. I’ll show you your room then I’ll get you a nice cup of tea.” My room on the first floor was one of only five guest rooms. It was simply but comfortably furnished with en-suite bathroom. It was clear that the en-suite was a recent modification made by taking a corner of the original room. At one time guests would have been content to share a bathroom but these days visitors are more particular, even when staying in a seventeenth century house.

“Will this suit you dear?” Mrs Hamilton looked anxious, no doubt nervous that a guest from London might expect a greater degree of sophistication. I smiled and assured Mrs Hamilton that I was delighted with the room. A much relieved, Mrs Hamilton led me down to a cosy guest sitting room and brought in a tray with tea and a plate of Scottish shortbread. “These are home made,” she declared proudly. “Better than the shop bought ones, you’ll find.” She hovered over me while I tried the delicacy. The shortbread melted in my mouth. “Mmm! That’s delicious, Mrs Hamilton.”

My host smiled happily. “My granny’s own recipe”

In between sips of tea and mouthfuls of shortbread, I enquired about the “1655” above the door. “Is the building really that old?”

“Yes dear! The original walls go back that far. Of course, it has been altered and added to over the years, but yes, the building does date back to 1655.”

We chatted for a while before Mrs Hamilton went to attend to the many chores associated with keeping a guest house. “Dinner is at 7 pm, if that is alright with you Miss Graham,” announced my host as she disappeared into the staff area. I looked at my watch and, as I had more than two hours before dinner, I decided to have a walk around the town.

As The Ben Noch is situated in the town centre it was easy to begin an exploration of the town. Opposite the guest house there is a pretty park right there in the town centre. At one side of the park was South Main Street, the location of my lodgings and at the other side was North Main Street. I crossed the road from The Ben Noch and entered a gate into the park. A man was reading a paper on a bench, a young mother walked her two children and an elderly lady was walking a small dog. I crossed the park and exited through a gate onto North Main Street and there, right in front of me was a second-hand bookshop.

I spent a good half hour exploring the shelves of old books, many of them of local interest. There were several books about Scottish Clans and I thumbed through a couple of volumes to check whether The Grahams were included. I was thrilled to find a Volume entitled ‘Scottish Clans and Their Tartans,’ that had a colour illustration of the tartans and clan emblems, including the Grahams.

It was an old book with a paper dust jacket. At only £2, I knew I had to buy it for Dad. Then, as I was carrying the book to the shop owner, I happened to spot a thin, soft backed book entitled The Wigtown Martyrs. Ah! That’s interesting: Just outside the park I had seen a signpost pointing to a local landmark – “Martyr’s Stake.”

A quick look at the pamphlet told me that sometime, long ago, women had been executed for refusing to acknowledge James VI of Scotland and James I of England as the head of the church. The front cover was illustrated with an ink drawing of a young woman tied to a wooden post on the sea shore. Not really the sort of reading material I cared for so I left the shop with my newly acquired book of Scottish Clans and Tartans. Perhaps I might visit the Martyrs Stake if it is not too far to walk.

Stepping outside the shop I started to cross the road and make my way back to the guest house, when I saw the sign pointing to harbour. Realising that I still had plenty of time before dinner I set off to walk the short distance. With the tide out, exposing the mudflats, the sea shore did not look pretty. A mist was gathering which gave the spot an eerie appearance. I thought back to the pamphlet I had seen in the bookshop. This surely must have been the place that the poor wretch illustrated on the pamphlet must have met her terrible fate. A shiver ran down my spine at the thought and quickly turned on heel and made my way back to The Ben Noch.

The delicious homemade venison casserole was a taste of heaven. Mrs Hamilton informed me that the venison was from a local butcher and had been sourced locally.

After the drive from Edinburgh plus several days’ work, I felt ready for an early night. After a shower I donned my new pair of tartan pattern pyjama’s I had bought in Edinburgh and climbed gratefully into the snug bed. The neat simple pine bedroom furniture and the plain wood floor gave the room an old-fashioned appearance, which was fair enough, given that the room may well have been part of the original 17th century building with minimal alteration, other than the added en-suite.

As I lay in bed I decided to hook up to the house WiFi. The password, ‘booktown’ was in the guest booklet on the pine beside table. I checked for new emails but there appeared to be nothing of importance. They could wait until later. I was about to close my Ipad when I remembered my new app – Spirit Guide. Ashamed of my stupidity I clicked the app into life, curious to see what happened.

Looking at the screen it appeared much the same as the standard camera viewer, except there was no movie option, also the view looked dimmer and slightly blurred with a greenish hue. Not really sure what to expect I scanned around the room and saw nothing different except the decor looked rather dingy, but that was surely down to the blurred image.

I was about to exit the app and return to my emails when something struck me. In the image on the screen the door to my room appeared to be slightly ajar. I quickly looked up at the door. No, it was tightly closed, just as I had left it. I looked again at the screen, my heart thumping in my rib cage. The door looked as if it was open, just a little. I moved the phone a little to change the angle. It definitely seemed to be open. It surely must be an optical illusion.

Then on the screen a dark shadow, vaguely humanoid in shape, glided through the small gap. I looked up at the real door. It was firmly closed. Looking back at the screen the door was closed and of the shadow there was no sign. I could almost hear my heart beating.

It was creepy, even scary, but surely simply the result of some clever algorithm in the guts of the app that somehow managed to distort a picture to give a strange effect.

Then the noises started. At first it sounded like the gurgling noise that a bath tub makes as the water goes down the plug. Then something akin to a groan. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. As I strained my ears I could almost swear that the groan was actually speech. “Help me, helppp!” it seemed to say. But I could have been mistaken. With trembling fingers, I turned the wretched app off.

Pull yourself together Ailsa. I told myself. It is just a stupid app, the product of a deranged mind. Whoever put the darned thing together must be sick, I reasoned. I got out of bed and went over to the kettle and prepared myself a cup of tea. As I waited for the kettle to boil I became conscious that my feet felt cold and damp. I looked down and realised the wood floor had a damp trail starting from the door. I shuddered and I admit I was scared. Oh, come on girl, get real. This is an old building. No doubt there is a loose tile on the roof, or maybe the plumbing is leaking somewhere.

I switched the TV on and was pleased that there was an old comedy movie playing. As I sipped my tea and watched an old Laurel and Hardy movie, I soon began to chuckle to myself.