Page 17 of The Shooting Season

“Is the fire out? What’s the damage?” Euan said as he stood and arched to stretch his back. His shirt still hung open and his nipples stood erect with the piercing cold.

“I believe the fire is out, and there is smoke damage mainly.” I grabbed one of the blankets that the maids had brought with them and put it over Euan’s shoulders. He looked a little dazed and nodded his thanks,

We re-entered the house together to see the two butlers retreating from the hearth. The fire was out, yet smoke billowed in a cloud and hung at the ceiling.

“Open all the windows”, Euan called.

“Aye M’Lord. It’ll take a while to disperse. You'll have te sleep in one of the back rooms tonight.” Rennie said.

That reminded me. I had not seen hide-nor-hair of Mr. Artur Engles after the auction. He had purchased the Egyptian cat statue and a canvas of a muscle-bound Roman Centurion. But he was not outside the house with the departing guests. Euan and I were supposed to be carrying out this blasted ritual tonight. I had a sneaking suspicion that Sebastian Cavell’s absence meant that all was not well. As if sensing my disquiet, Euan and I exchanged a glance then made for the stairs. He had left the door to his bedchamber wide open and the box containing the Staff was on his bedside table.

On reaching his bedchamber my worst fears were realized. I had traveled to Scotland in the dead of winter for naught and as Cavell predicted, I would be leaving this house today empty-handed. The bottle casket that had lain on Euan’s bedside was gone.

“NO…NO! It cannot be. Surely someone is playing a jest.” Euan turned on me. “What did you do with it… The Staff?” He pushed me roughly against the open door of his chamber. I was stunned by the violence in his action.

“What did you do with it? Tell me, Ben, tell me! It was the only bloody thing I had left to bargain with. Without it, I’m ruined!”

I was horrified by Euan’s outburst and his admittance that the Staff was his bargaining tool. He did not intend to give it to me as a gift after all. That was the last straw. I was done with Euan Ardmillan and his lies.

“I was downstairs with you! I have no idea what happened to the Staff but you have lied to me far too many times in these past two days.” I placed my hands on his chest and pushed. Euan staggered backward.

“All men reap what they sow, Euan. It seems that with your withered prick, you are getting exactly what you are due. Goodbye. I will not give you a chance to lie to me again.” I said coldly then I left his chamber without another word.

Snowbound

And so, like Déjà-Vu, I found myself on the train winding its way through the West Highlands and then down into the bustling industrial city of Glasgow. However, this time, the journey did not fill me with anticipation, for I was feeling thoroughly run-through. Not only had I wasted my time and money on taking this journey in the dead of winter, but I had also sullied myself by giving in to the sins of the flesh with Euan again. I was thoroughly ashamed. I promised myself that my first stop after I returned home was to be to my Church for Holy Communion and to repent my sins.

Leaving Dunecht Hall did not go well and the thought of it preyed on my mind. Euan had protested as the guests made to leave, ranting like a madman:

“I… I want every single bloody suitcase and trunk to be removed from the carriages and searched. One of you bastards has stolen the Staff of Asklepios, I know it.” He roared. “I was a good host, I was fair in business, and this is how you repay me!”

It was embarrassing watching him try to clamber atop one of the carriages and untie the strap while the snow fell. If he hadn’t lied constantly and attempted to manipulate me I would have felt sorry for the man. But Euan had bought his ill-luck on himself. The art collectors looked on in horror and consensus was that the shock of the chimney fire had sent the new Lord Ardmillan to have a breakdown. The carriages later left without me, and the guests met the midday train. I remained at the hall to ensure Mrs. McKelvie was well, and luckily, Dr. Sinclair arrived from Fort William and therefore I did not remain at the hall to see what occurred next.

Sitting with my head leaning on the icy cold train window, I watched the mountainous wintery wonderland go by. But I could not muster any cheer to enjoy the snowbound landscape or feel and goodwill of the upcoming Christmas season. The last of my goodwill had been drained from me by Euan’s deceit. I was cross with myself for falling for his ruse, and angry with Euan for believing that after all these years apart he could summon me to do his devious bidding—and that it nearly worked! Without the warning from Sebastian Cavell I would have fallen into Euan’s trap like a fly in a spider web. I felt like a fool for not questioning the invitation, and I believed that if I had not received the missive in such an urgent manner so close to Christmas I would have thought twice about attending the auction at all. But who was I kidding? Euan knew I was obsessed with owning the Staff of Asklepios and I would have traveled anywhere in the world if I could possess it. Now I had nothing to show for the excursion and found myself a few pounds lighter in the pocket with the expenses of this journey, and a heavier in my heart, loaded with the weight of submitting to my sin.

The snow began to fall in earnest as we approached Glasgow and the train slowed down to the pace of a snail. The Caledonian Sleeper train would not depart until ten p.m this night, and so as it was near six of the clock I would have several hours to spend in Glasgow city. Part of me wanted to head to the nearest snug and drown my sorrows; however, the fates had something else in store!

I left the train at Glasgow Central Station, and pulling the lapels of my greatcoat closed and gripping my hat and cane, I headed for the ticket office to purchase my berth on the Caledonian Sleeper. I expected a queue but what I found was worse than my expectations. I was faced with a ten-meter long line of irate passengers. It was peak traveling season as many of those who left the English countryside to seek work in Glasgow city would be returning home for Christmas to spend their precious few days off with their loved ones.

“Excuse me miss, what appears to be the trouble?” I asked, trying to be heard over the hearty din of the Salvation Army choir with bell, trumpets and drum accompaniment.

The Irish woman raised her voice as she replied to me. “Sir, did ye not hear? The last train left two hour ago an got snowbound in Carlisle. It’s awful bad in England. Not a train movin’ on the tracks in the whole of the country. We’re stuck, so we are.”

On hearing that, I brimmed with frustration. I decided I would not join the queue and needed to be on the move. I imagined that the other guests who had departed before me were on the train stranded in Carlisle. I was lucky to remain in a big city where I had more choices on how to proceed. This whole debacle to Scotland had been a huge waste of my time and I did not see myself standing around in a chilly train station to wait for news of how and when I was to travel to London.

I claimed my trunk from the luggage car of the West Highland train and with my cane; I pushed my case under my arm. Feeling overburdened and ridiculous, I dragged the wheeled trunk, and with my bullish, no-nonsense gait, I made swift work through the crowds and hubbub.

I found my way to the stagecoach stop. There was already a large crowd assembling there too, so other travelers had the same idea as me. A line of ten coaches waited but not one was laden with baggage and the horses wore their nose bags, so they were still feeding and not yet readying for the off. There was muttering and angry words among the crowd complaining of the delays.

“If we don’t set off now while the daylight is upon us the night will soon come and the roads will be impassable,” One irate man argued with a driver in a most improper manner. I was sure that the driver knew his business and would set off when it was time.

I turned to see the glass-covered arcade with paneled pilasters of the Central Hotel which was adjoined to the station concourse. It would be a nice place to ease the aches from my bones and take tea while awaiting the latest report about the weather. The Central Hotel was a four-star establishment and an expensive place to stay overnight, but the more I thought of a journey in a jammed stage-coach the more it did not appeal to me and dragging my baggage around Glasgow seeking a room did not appeal either. Knowing how the snow could make the whole country grind to a halt I needed to secure lodgings immediately and so I made my way to the entrance.

The hotel foyer was proper and comfortable, and one would not have guessed we were just two days from Christmas Day. There were no garlands, ribbons, or boughs decorating the foyer, and I was reminded that the Scottish Church punished any who celebrated Christmas. A porter stepped to my side,

“Can I be of assistance to ye sir?” He hurriedly relieved me of my burden and not used to carrying my own luggage, I was grateful for it. He wheeled my trunk to the mahogany reception counter and pushed the brass counter bell for service.

“Thank you my boy”, I said and gave the young man a copper. In the office behind the counter, I recognized the rapid clicking of a telegraph machine. The desk clerk was hovering in the doorway his attention sidetracked by the telegraph operator.