A brutal murder has taken place in the small Highland village of Strathmorn. The accused claims that the ghosts from a local haunted manor are to blame!
Piqued by the alleged supernatural angle to the case, renowned Psychical Researcher, Harry Price, is seeking a team of responsible persons ‘of leisure and intelligence, intrepid, critical and unbiased’ to investigate the haunting.
Doesn’t that just sound like the sort of thing you’ve been looking for?
The Columba Hotel, Ness Walk, Inverness
Wednesday 18 March 1931. 8.00pm
The Columba Hotel was just five minutes away, albeit over on the other side of the river across the Young Street bridge. A bit more careworn that the Station Hotel, nevertheless it was clean and the welcome friendly.
“Come in, Father,” said Doddie, the concierge. He was tall and dark, unlike his opposite number at the Station Hotel. “Wullie said ye were on yer way.”
He was shown to a small but tidy room with a single bed on the first floor overlooking the river. “I’ll leave ye to unpack but be sure to give us a shout if ye need anything.”
The Father Ó Shaban managed to get to his room and answer all questions and considerations of the concierge using mostly "yes", "no", and a liberal use of his hands. He wasn't sure the scotts would understand him clearly, and he was also not sure about such.
Already in his room, he decided to not unpack, and write a plan of action for his night, and the next day. With a liberal use of the telephone.
For starters, he had to make sure this didn't happen in the village, get the local news, have dinner, and probably finally find a helper or two.
Now, he couldnt do all of those at the same time in his limited time, so he directed himself to the concierge.
"Forrgiveness my good sir. I have short time, and little done. Is zere any blace to get dinner arround zere? And I have to ask, for some calls. Too many for me. Can you help My task? And I need the newspaper."
As the most basic tool to promote action he would brandish a two dollar bill, that he would not give until those actions were done.
If nothing stopped him, with a telephone he would ask the operator the number of a hotel in next town to already reserve a room. If it was plausible, he would ask for the concierge to get him newspapers from the last weeks, and to find an protection firm, agency or whathever those were called in scotland, and call them with a job offer while he, meaning the concierge calling and the Father Ó Shaban being away, was having dinner.
That should be enough.
If all of this was sorted, and no problem appeared, and it wasn't too late, he would go with to the station hotel to meet with the rest of the investigators.
The Columba Hotel was just five minutes away, albeit over on the other side of the river across the Young Street bridge. A bit more careworn that the Station Hotel, nevertheless it was clean and the welcome friendly.
“Come in, Father,” said Doddie, the concierge. He was tall and dark, unlike his opposite number at the Station Hotel. “Wullie said ye were on yer way.”
He was shown to a small but tidy room with a single bed on the first floor overlooking the river. “I’ll leave ye to unpack but be sure to give us a shout if ye need anything.”
“The ‘paper’s there, Father,” said Doddie, pointing to the rack on the wall at the end of reception desk, when Father Ò Shaban returned with his list of questions. The Inverness Courier looked as if one or two of the other guests had got there first as it was badly creased but it was still readable. “Just pop it back when you’re finished.”
When asked about a hotel, Doddie pulled out a gazetteer of places to stay. ”Strathmorn, is it? Ye’ll be wanting the Strathmorn Hotel. I ken Mrs MacPherson - she’s the owner so I’ll get a telegram away in the morn’. Now what was this ye were saying about a bodyguard…?”
After a bit of chat so he could establish that Father Ò Shaban wanted someone to stop him being beaten up, rather than having others beaten, Doddie thought for a while, before clicking his fingers. ”How about ma sister’s lad, Hamish? He’s a beater but the season’s finished so he’s kicking his heals. He’s a big, strapping lad. I reckon he’ll do ye right. I’ll get him to come round in the morning.”
When he’d finished, Doddie said, ”The kitchen’s closed but I’ll ask ma wife if she can rustle ye up a sandwich or two. Would ye like a drink with that?”
Philulhu wrote: ↑Wed Sep 28, 2022 2:12 pm“The ‘paper’s there, Father,” said Doddie, pointing to the rack on the wall at the end of reception desk, when Father Ò Shaban returned with his list of questions. The Inverness Courier looked as if one or two of the other guests had got there first as it was badly creased but it was still readable. “Just pop it back when you’re finished.”
When asked about a hotel, Doddie pulled out a gazetteer of places to stay. ”Strathmorn, is it? Ye’ll be wanting the Strathmorn Hotel. I ken Mrs MacPherson - she’s the owner so I’ll get a telegram away in the morn’. Now what was this ye were saying about a bodyguard…?”
After a bit of chat so he could establish that Father Ò Shaban wanted someone to stop him being beaten up, rather than having others beaten, Doddie thought for a while, before clicking his fingers. ”How about ma sister’s lad, Hamish? He’s a beater but the season’s finished so he’s kicking his heals. He’s a big, strapping lad. I reckon he’ll do ye right. I’ll get him to come round in the morning.”
When he’d finished, Doddie said, ”The kitchen’s closed but I’ll ask ma wife if she can rustle ye up a sandwich or two. Would ye like a drink with that?”
The Father, now convinced that all of scotland have basically the same level of infraestructure as a rural village, decided to read the newspaper. In specific if there was anything interesting or relevant to Strathmorn. The coptic men was very unhappy with the poberty of it all, but he accepted nonetheless.
Respect about the dinner and the bodyguard he accepted both and give a two dollar bill to the scottish man, while asking for it all to be done as quick as he could. "Zat forr Allah, he was zere wiz ze most dislike forr ze slowness of it all."
Considering that he was destined to eat sanwdichs in a scottish hotel, he wasn't expecting to be able to get to talk with the others, but there was maybe hope for such.
Doddie gently handed the dollar bills back to Father Ò Staban. “Begging your pardon, Father, but ye’ll need to change your money at the bank in the morn’. As a man of the cloth, I’m assuming ye’re good for the bill, but ye’ll not pay for much in the Highlands with that.”
As he went off to speak to his wife about the sandwiches, Father Ò Staban was able to sit and start reading the newspaper. Annoyingly, someone had already had a go at the crossword, though their penmanship left a lot to be desired and they had made some quite obvious mistakes. Turning to the local news section, he saw an article on the murder that stated that the McLeod boy was still being questioned by the Inverness Police.
It was at least twenty minutes before Doddie returned with his sandwiches. They were big, rough cut slices of bread with slabs of beef between them, with a pot of mustard on the tray next to them. “Sorry for the delay. My wife was listening to her programme on the wireless and there’s nae disturbing her, so I’ve made them ma’self. I hope they’re all right for ye. There’s mustard, there too. It’s English but some folks seem to like it.”
Doddie put down the tray. ”Now, Father, what about a drink?”
Philulhu wrote: ↑Wed Sep 28, 2022 4:16 pmDoddie gently handed the dollar bills back to Father Ò Staban. “Begging your pardon, Father, but ye’ll need to change your money at the bank in the morn’. As a man of the cloth, I’m assuming ye’re good for the bill, but ye’ll not pay for much in the Highlands with that.”
As he went off to speak to his wife about the sandwiches, Father Ò Staban was able to sit and start reading the newspaper. Annoyingly, someone had already had a go at the crossword, though their penmanship left a lot to be desired and they had made some quite obvious mistakes. Turning to the local news section, he saw an article on the murder that stated that the McLeod boy was still being questioned by the Inverness Police.
It was at least twenty minutes before Doddie returned with his sandwiches. They were big, rough cut slices of bread with slabs of beef between them, with a pot of mustard on the tray next to them. “Sorry for the delay. My wife was listening to her programme on the wireless and there’s nae disturbing her, so I’ve made them ma’self. I hope they’re all right for ye. There’s mustard, there too. It’s English but some folks seem to like it.”
Doddie put down the tray. ”Now, Father, what about a drink?”
The Father, partially feeling himself part of a kind of strange comedy, sighed in the complete inexistance of scottish infraestructure. Seeing that apparently the scottish has brought food for him he smiled, until he saw the food and heard the explanation. His emotions towards the food were not great. With another sigh he spoke.
"Gud man, forrgive. Forr I am a copt, we don't eat animals in wednesday."
The man, as a Coptic Priest, was practically a vegan during half the year. Apparently fasting days for the copts could be over 200 in a year.
“Oh, bugger! I’m really sorry, Father,” replied Doddie, flushing with embarrassment. “Do ye eat cheese? I could bring ye some cheese and biscuits instead. I’d be sending out for a fish supper but it’s wee bit late for that.”
He looked over his shoulder and leant closer. ”Would ye like a wee dram or do ye nae drink neither? The wife doesnae approve but I’ve a bottle stashed away. Just by way of apology for keeping ye waiting for yer food,” he said conspiratorially.
Philulhu wrote: ↑Wed Sep 28, 2022 6:19 pm“Oh, bugger! I’m really sorry, Father,” replied Doddie, flushing with embarrassment. “Do ye eat cheese? I could bring ye some cheese and biscuits instead. I’d be sending out for a fish supper but it’s wee bit late for that.”
He looked over his shoulder and leant closer. ”Would ye like a wee dram or do ye nae drink neither? The wife doesnae approve but I’ve a bottle stashed away. Just by way of apology for keeping ye waiting for yer food,” he said conspiratorially.
The priest was starting to get at the border of his patience at the proposition of cheese. With an insulted visage he talked his mind.
"Good man. Go to yourr churrch, and prray to ze Holy Sbirit. Waz zis insolence? Chesse yuu offerr? We don't eat animals in wednesday. Not ze animal, not ze milk, not ze eggs, not ze feazers and not ze cheeze. So let me be blease. I won't eat anything."
After a pause he talked once again.
"We also don't drink yuur alcohol. Tomorrow Morrning remember to send ze zelegrab, got ze Hamish friend, ask him to bring a hunting rifle, if he so has, and please buy ze newspaper. Zank you, Goodbye, as salamu alaikum"
And with a goodbye the old priest left to the other hotel to meet with the other investigators, if he could find them.
Father Ó Shaban, completely lost, sighed visibly. This has started to be tiring. If this scottish Town had taxis, he would get one. If not, he would try to consult his great knowledge of a lot of irrelevant facts to try to determine where the rail would be, and go from there. And finally, if that wasn't enough, he would stop the first scott he could find, to ask for a guide.
A couple of Scots were making their way past who Father Ó Shaban was able to stop and ask for directions. Taken aback by the elderly priest in the unfamiliar robes abroad at night, they nevertheless were able to help with directions. ”The Station Hotel? Ye’re heading in the wrong direction. Ye need to turn around and head back that way for about ten minutes. Ye’ll see a bridge - go over that, take the second left, then the second right and ye’ll see the Station Hotel in front of ye.”
Philulhu wrote: ↑Wed Sep 28, 2022 11:08 pm
A couple of Scots were making their way past who Father Ó Shaban was able to stop and ask for directions. Taken aback by the elderly priest in the unfamiliar robes abroad at night, they nevertheless were able to help with directions. ”The Station Hotel? Ye’re heading in the wrong direction. Ye need to turn around and head back that way for about ten minutes. Ye’ll see a bridge - go over that, take the second left, then the second right and ye’ll see the Station Hotel in front of ye.”
The priest decided to follow their directions. Not really quickly, mostly because he was really old. Walk ten minutes, Cross the bridge, second left and second right.
With just you being on this board, you don’t need to quote my posts every time you reply. It’s only really necessary if there’s a number of people and you’re replying to a particular question or point I’ve made
With just you being on this board, you don’t need to quote my posts every time you reply. It’s only really necessary if there’s a number of people and you’re replying to a particular question or point I’ve made
It's like doing so, if you dislike it I can stop. It just helps me read easier to what I am answering.
The Columba Hotel, Ness Walk, Inverness
Thursday 19 March 1931. 7.30am
Having returned to the Columba, Father Ó Shaban had at least managed to get a reasonable night’s sleep. He descended the next morning to find a young man waiting for him next to the reception desk. He was about 5’ 9’’ tall, wiry build with an oversized head, topped with a shock of red hair that had got into a fight with a comb and lost. A stout beater’s pole and a waxed jacket completed his ensemble.
“This is my sister’s lad, Hamish, Father” said the concierge, by way of introduction.
Having returned to the Columba, Father Ó Shaban had at least managed to get a reasonable night’s sleep. He descended the next morning to find a young man waiting for him next to the reception desk. He was about 5’ 9’’ tall, wiry build with an oversized head, topped with a shock of red hair that had got into a fight with a comb and lost. A stout beater’s pole and a waxed jacket completed his ensemble.
“This is my sister’s lad, Hamish, Father” said the concierge, by way of introduction.
Father Ó Shaban finally descending to the reception was satisfied with at least something going well for that travel. Declaring his good days with his hands the foreign man made sure to have a good look on the young lad before speaking a bunch of weird questions.
"A bleasure, good man. I am zanfull forr your helb. Forrgiveness, but I will ask some of ze rrelevance questions. Before I, as you would understand, starting butting ze money arround.
What are yourr obinions wiz ze cazolics?
What are yourr obinions wiz ze brotestants?
What are yourr obinions of ze french?"
With those strange questions answered, and if nothing was that strange, he would give to the lad 10 dollars and send him to the bank and change it to the local coin, and giving back that money to him. If the youngling had not taken any of that money for himself, he would give him the equivalent of 6 dollars, as a payment for the day.
Hamish stared at Father Ó Shaban for a long moment. ”Cazolics?” he repeated slowly, looking at the concierge then back to the Father. Thoughts moved like tectonic plates then he said, ”Do ye mean Catholics? I dinnae mind them. My ma’s not keen but they nivver did me nae harm.”
He took the money from Father Ó Shaban’s outstretched hand and looked at it carefully. “Take it to the bank when it opens at nine,” said the concierge. Hamish nodded and stood looking at the Father, waiting to see what he wanted him to do next.
