Dark Capital (Tales From The Dark Past Book 3)

Book summary

Set in the contrasting Edinburgh of the 1820s, "Dark Capital" follows Dr. Martin Elliot's journey through a city split between the affluent New Town and the impoverished Old Town. As Martin grapples with the city's hidden darkness, he encounters supernatural hauntings and personal nightmares. A mysterious ancient staff offers relief, but at a cost. This tale weaves a suspenseful narrative of good versus evil, testing Martin's resolve and moral compass.

Excerpt from Dark Capital (Tales From The Dark Past Book 3)

I sit here in the dim candlelight, with the remainder of my life steadily ticking away.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

As I sit, I ponder. A clock is a very sinister machine as it slowly marks the passage of one’s life, with every tick a second less to live, every trembling movement of the hand informing the watcher that he has used up more of his allotted span.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

My clock sits in the corner of the room. Tall as a man, it has the maker’s name, Thomas Reid of Edinburgh, scrolled behind the hands, as if in mockery of the buyer, laughing at me for having purchased the object that counts down what remains of my life. I watch it through narrowed eyes, aware of the exact second it will stop, aware of the implications and now aware of the reasons.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Shadows flit outside this room, moving around in this cursed house, silent as the ghosts of the long-dead and the recently departed. I know the shadows are gathering for me. I was responsible for some, while others existed many years before my time, although in a different place in this dark city. I must wait, aching my life away, knowing how long I have.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

There it is again, that sonorous whirr of machinery, that inexorable mechanical hum that does not care about the frail man who sits in the room, fearful of every sound, jumping at every soft scuff of feet in the street outside, every voice raised in drunken debauchery. I am numb to every sensation except fear, and cannot welcome death as a relief, for I know what must come next.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The candle is burning low now, pooling a gradually decreasing circle of yellow light across the table. I should start another before I have to sit in the dark with my thoughts and memories. At one time, I had servants to perform such tasks for me. Now I am alone as my candle comes to an end. See? The flame gutters, flicking this way and that in this draughty room. The sounds outside are fading as the city retires to sleep. Only the night-prowlers are out, those half-human denizens of the dark closes, these predatory creatures who thrive on the weaknesses of their fellow beings, who prey on the vacillating, the foolish and the uncontrolled. I pity them, for they are without pity, as was I, God help me.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The candle is about gone, the flame little more than a memory, the smell of melted tallow thick in the room. The dying flame is shining red through the dregs of my claret, reflecting from the cut-crystal in a hundred different patterns, throwing a scarlet glow across the document on which I write. It is like spreading blood, that light, a suitable colour for the paper on which I will inscribe an account of what brought me to this pass.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

I need more light. I cannot see to guide my pen, my old-fashioned, inexpensive goose-wing quill, across the page. I have to put flame to another candle, a dozen candles, although no amount of light can chase away the darkness that crouches at the periphery of this room and in all the rooms of this house. No flame can clear the shadows from my memory, and light will reflect from that hideous white object that grins and rattles at me always from its position opposite my desk. I have brought myself to this state, and only I can atone for my actions.

Tick, tock, tick.

I must have light. I scramble feverishly to apply a flame to all the candles I can find, gather my papers and place them on the desk to my left, fill my inkwell and sharpen the tip of my pen before leaving the penknife at my side. To some, a penknife may be a potential weapon, but no weapon can defend me now. The candlelight grows, fever-bright, expelling all external darkness without easing my torment in the slightest.

Tick, tock, tick.

I begin to write, in the hope that somebody, anybody, will read this and perhaps understand what I have done. Maybe somebody will forgive me. Perhaps.

Tick, tock.

Oh, dear God in heaven help me.

Chapter One

EDINBURGH, APRIL 1825

“Your name, sir?” Mrs MacHardy frowned at me from outside the closed door of the house. A big, busty woman, she stood with her arms akimbo, as if daring me to give a name that was not my own.

“Martin Elliot,” I said.

“Are you Irish?” Mrs MacHardy was immediately suspicious. “I want none of your wild Irish ways here, bringing pigs into houses and drinking all night long.”

For some reason, Mrs MacHardy’s words set the gathered crowd screeching with laughter.

“I am as Scottish as you are,” I said, lifting my chin. “From Roxburghshire.”

Mrs MacHardy grunted, do doubt wondering where Roxburghshire might be.

“Elliot, you say.”

“Martin Elliot,” I repeated, adding, “Doctor Martin Elliot,” in the hope of gaining the woman’s respect.

‘Doctor?” The woman ran her jaundiced gaze up and down the length of my body. I felt she was showing her contempt of people who claimed a medical degree yet who could not afford accommodation in a more respectable part of the city. “Are you one of these wild students that kick up a rumpus every night?”

“I am no student,” I hastened to convince her. “I am a fully qualified doctor of medicine.”

“Are you indeed?” Mrs MacHardy was about 50, by my reckoning, with her nose displaying the broken blood vessels of too-frequent imbibing, while the rest of her was sufficiently large for her weight to strain her heart. I gave her 10 years to live, and that was a generous estimate. “Well, Doctor.” She emphasised the word as if my standing left a foul taste in her mouth. “You sound eminently suitable.” Charitable people might have construed Mrs MacHardy’s grimace as a smile. “If you are sure you want the lease.”

“Thank you.” I tried to hide my relief as I gave a small bow for, in truth, finding affordable accommodation in Edinburgh had been troublesome.

I was in the West Bow, that curious, Z-shaped street that angles down from the Lawnmarket to the Grassmarket, beset with ancient, crumbling houses, secret courts and half-hidden passageways, known as closes. It was not the most salubrious of neighbourhoods, but a purse-pinched doctor must seek accommodation wherever he can. The house outside which I stood was in a dirty little private courtyard, with a small close leading to it, affording a little seclusion without spoiling my access. Quite apart from its affordability, it was within easy reach of the High Street, Old Edinburgh’s main thoroughfare.

A group of people had gathered as we spoke, ragged-looking men and women who watched me suspiciously while bare-footed children made a hideous din that echoed around the courtyard. Above me, the ubiquitous tall tenements of Scotland’s capital city rose to a dull, grey sky, with women leaning out of most windows to observe whatever the world offered in the way of entertainment.

Mrs MacHardy remained on the doorstep, studying me with the strangest of expressions on her broad face.

“That man’s going to live there,” one gaunt-faced woman in the crowd screeched, pointing a long-taloned finger at me.

“He doesn’t know.” Another woman, all dolled up and with a painted face, shook her head, so the profusion of ribbons around her neck shivered in a multi-coloured display of tawdriness. “He surely doesn’t know.”

“He’ll find out soon enough,” a third woman said, pulling a threadbare shawl close over her head.

“Don’t be a fool, man!” a gaunt-faced fellow tried to shout above the hubbub of the crowd.

I attempted to ignore the noise as I watched Mrs MacHardy hold the massive, old-fashioned key as if reluctant to hand it over.

“Do you know anything about Edinburgh?” Mrs MacHardy remained in the doorway, inadvertently blocking my entrance.

“No,” I admitted foolishly. “I gained my degree in Glasgow.”

For some reason, my answer seemed to please the woman. “This house is not a bad place.” The old besom seemed inclined to be garrulous now she was convinced I was neither Irish nor a student. “A major of the City Guard used to live here in the old days. A most respectable gentleman.” She patted the door as if to convince me to come to a decision.

“I’ll take it,” I said, for in truth I was desperate for any sort of accommodation so I could set up my practice. “I’ll soon have this house set to rights.”

The old besom grunted in a most unladylike fashion. “Will you be bringing your patients here? I don’t want a lot of sick people spreading their diseases around. I have my reputation to consider.”

I tried to raise a smile. “I will not,” I said. “I will have my practice in quite another part of the city. I don’t wish to mix business with my home life.”

“Three shillings a week.” Mrs MacHardy held out a grimy hand. “One week in advance.”

I paid her, counting out the silver from my slender resources and watched her secret it away in some recess in her voluminous clothing. Even then, I wondered at the low rent for a fairly sizeable residence, but one must be grateful for small mercies. I could feel the tension from the crowd behind me as if they had never seen a man part with money before.

“Here’s the key.” Mrs MacHardy handed over the iron key that looked as if it might open the gates to Edinburgh Castle, let alone a private house in the West Bow.

The metal felt cold and worn as I grasped it.

“I’ll be back next week,” Mrs MacHardy said. And with that, she was gone, leaving me alone outside that dark doorway, with my single case of belongings, my medical bag and my hopes for the future.

“He’s took it!” the garrulous woman shrieked to her companions. “He’s moving in!”

I was not sure if it was amusement or astonishment that caused the uproar in the ever-increasing crowd. Three men began to argue, pushing at each other until one, a medium-sized fellow with a broken nose and a pockmarked face, smashed his fist into the mouth of his nearest neighbour and elbowed the other in the throat.

“Enough of that,” the gaunt-faced fellow said, pulling the fighting men apart.

As the battlers finished the business with growls and vague threats, I fitted the key in the lock and opened the door. I was not here to pacify drunken brawlers but to attend the capital’s sick, be they poor or wealthy, old or young. Leaving the pugilists to sort out their dispute, I stepped inside.

I did not know when anybody had last occupied the house, but whoever the tenant had been, he had left the place in some confusion. The advertisement had claimed the house to be fully furnished, which was accurate, although the furniture lay around the floor in the wildest disorder, and a man might lose himself in the thick dust that lay on top. Augmenting the grime were the cobwebs, great silver-grey constructions that harboured arachnids half the size of my hand. The creatures scuttled away from me, presumably having never seen a human being before. The house was stuffy, if surprisingly dry, with an atmosphere such as I cannot describe, never having experienced the like before.

“Well now,” I said to myself. “You have made your bed here, Doctor Martin Elliot, and now you must lie in it.”

I am not one of these people who likes to sit and wait for events. Instead, I prefer to make them bend to my will, so, removing my coat, I folded it neatly on top of my baggage and set to work. My first job was to throw back the internal shutters and force open the windows, for I believe that fresh air is a wonderful restorative and cleanser. Unfortunately, opening the window allowed in a profusion of foul scents and raucous voices. I quickly learned that there is little fresh air in an Edinburgh close, so densely packed are the people.

I spent the remainder of that day attempting to clean and scrub the house. I was fortunate that there was a brush-maker in the West Bow, so I spent more of my meagre store of money purchasing a variety of brushes and parted with more copper in buying two wooden buckets.

I locked the door most carefully on each occasion I left the house, although none of the gathered crowd of idlers seemed interested in entering.

“You’re wasting your time,” the gaunt-faced man told me.

“I’ll get the house clean,” I told him, sternly.

“No.” His blue bonnet nearly fell off when he shook his head. “I mean you’re wasting your time locking the door. Nobody will go into that house.”

“I’ll make sure of that,” I said.

The man shrugged and said no more, watching me from the corner of narrow eyes.

Naturally, in a house so old, there was no access to water, so I took many trips to the pump, filling up buckets and bringing them inside to remove what seemed to be the dirt of ages. The people watched me, none offering to help, and most drawing back to create a corridor of humanity on my journey between house and pump. Despite the words of the gaunt-faced man, I had feared that leaving the door open would be an invitation for the petty thieves of the area. However, the crowd seemed content only to look inside, with strange comments in a mixture of Highland, Irish and gutter Edinburgh accents.

“You’re a fool man, a fool,” an elderly man told me as he sucked on an empty pipe.

“In what way?” I asked him pleasantly.

“You’re a fool to take on that house.” He pointed the stem of his pipe towards me. “I’m telling you, no good will come of it.”

“Thank you for the warning,” I said, cutting half an inch off a plug of tobacco and passing it to him.

“Aye,” he said, looking at the tobacco as if it was a block of gold. “You may be a fool, but you’re a gentleman.”

The gaunt-faced man was still watching. He gave a single nod, which might have meant approval, and retained his place against the wall, a position that allowed him the best view inside my house. I marked him down as a possible thief.

Given the apparent reluctance of anybody to cross my threshold, I was surprised when one woman had the temerity, or the bad manners, to step inside my door. She stood there like a statue, watching me without lifting a finger to help or hinder. I bade her a cheerful good morning as I passed, to which she responded with a somewhat brighter smile than any of her compatriots.

My visitor was slightly better dressed than most of the crowd, a woman of about 30, with a bold eye and a fine figure. She stood proudly, eyeing everything as if sizing the house up. Allowing her to remain where she was, I continued with my work.

The bed was sound, but the mattress was crawling with vermin, so out it went, along with the bedclothes. Although I thought these articles might tempt a thief, not one person touched them, forcing me to pay a couple of Irish vagrants to dispose of them, I don’t know where. The gaunt-faced man watched everything, pulling on his pipe and with his bonnet low over his forehead.