A Moray tale: The ‘Lady of the Sands’
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By Steve Storey
[The following extracts from my journals are copied verbatim and tell of strange happenings that have recently befallen me. I have taken the liberty to include supplemental entries were deemed appropriate – the aim being to provide context to what is evidently a series of baffling events.
- JAMES CAMERON ANDERSON: London, May 19th, 1924]
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Wednesday September 12th, 1923.
Departing from London’s King’s Cross railway terminus, my journey northward – one which I have made regularly each early autumn since demobilisation in the summer of ‘19 – has again proven a relaxed precursor to my annual retreat. With minimal delay I have been comfortably conveyed to my destination, arriving a little after nightfall, and since have taken residency in one of the attractive lodges at the rear of aunt Katelyn's family Duncarry Estate, close-by densely forested Culbin and the coast of the Moray Firth.
More than once I have entertained the passing fancy of enticing Ellen MacPherson to keep house at my London residence. She, capable, and most tidy of appearance and manner, has evinced a model member of the Duncarry household staff. On such a chilled evening, the daughter of the amiable Mac – he employed as Estate Manager – had the lodge fireplaces thankfully lit and properly stoked a good while before my arrival. With a warming meal prepared and served, Ellen then ably saw to the unpacking and organisation of my belongings with great efficiency, before politely informing me that the morning’s breakfast will be taken in the dining room of the main house with the family gathered at nine.
I am again content: Ensconced on the Estate, I immediately resume a relaxed lifestyle devoid of the many demands with which day to day living has seen fit to burden me. I will surely find myself a month’s peaceful respite here, absorbed in both the familiar rhythm of the Estate’s farming routines and in the area’s quiet ruddy beauty. At Duncarry, as I have discovered during previous stays, I am thankfully released from the pace and turmoil of old London town – if but for a short while, and from the traumas that have regularly troubled my mind since first contracted during those fighting days leading the fine lads of the 1st Lincolnshire ‘Springers’ under my command.
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Thursday September 13th, 1923.
My first full day returned to Duncarry. As has proven the norm when making my annual trips north, a traditional ‘first day’ breakfast was taken with aunt Katelyn, husband Robert and family – always a splendid fare, permitting an informal catch-up and exchange of news.
Reassuringly I find my hosts in good fettle, and the Estate’s arable and pasture ground producing a good return. Of concern however, old MacPherson – I consider him the best of fellows – who has loyally managed the running of things here for as long as I can remember, continues to exhibit the signs of deterioration brought on by advancing age. I am concerned for the well-being of this fine widower and soldier of the old Queen, and – sad-to-my-heart – I conclude that the estate must soon engage a worthy replacement to assure future prosperity.
I am unsettled by old man Mac’s regretful downturn, possessing a mood darkened by news of his condition. It has been an aspect to my character, developed during wartime convalescence, that I dwell upon – and struggle – with any adversity that strikes at the heart and vim of once able men. I can only hope that the calming influence offered by Duncarry will placate my spirit.
Young Bob and his trusted sire Duke – two of old Mac’s marvellous black Flatties – have been reliably excited to find me established at the lodge, and with his consent I plan to take the dogs as companions on the morrow up over the dunes for a walk along the coastal sands. Ellen tells me that the hallway barometer’s pressure is on the fall, and that I can expect a strong North-Westerly wind to be whipping up the sands to a dramatic backdrop of booming sea-surf. In truth, these adversities worry me not; as I will happily indulge even the harshest of weather if provided with suitable attire and dry feet; and I am aware that my good companions are a breed specially bred for hunting when exposed to even the most inclement of meteorological conditions.
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Friday September 14th, 1923.
Mac joined me this morning for a hearty Scottish breakfast prepared by Ellen, and has requested I join aunt Katelyn’s husband Robert on a shoot next Wednesday at his invitation – an arrangement we make each year. Without reservation I was pleased to accept, with the proviso that Bob, Duke and I make up a team. Indeed, accompanying me to Duncarry I have brought a favourite Ithaca Flues double in anticipation, and a newly purchased tweed shooting suit from Haymarket’s Burberry.
Trained to flush quarry at a walk and quickly retrieve, Duke is second to none when rough shooting – and I believe Bob has learned fast from the boss. I may not hunt as often as others of Duncarry’s syndicate guns, but with such a brace of bird dogs onside I can hold my own, and expect to produce a worthy bag when we finally sit about with a dram or two to tally up our birds.
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Monday September 17th, 1923.
Involuntarily I jumped in shock as the abrupt chime of the mantel clock, marking the half hour after four, aroused me to a state of perception. Since close to midnight I had sat, poker in hand, idly playing with the popping, sizzling logs of the living room fireplace, lost in the possession of a conflicted mind. Having been shaken to collectedness, I eventually moved from fireside seat to the writing desk, there taking up my pen. I have negated to set down a journal entry these last two evenings; finding it necessary instead to properly arrange irregular thoughts, which I shall here endeavour to recount with as much sagacity as I may ably muster – courtesy of a dim desk lamp; the calming influence of Player’s; and a concoction of black coffee infused with a little dark rum.
As planned, it was the late morning before last that I walked trusty Bob and Duke to the coast under bracing conditions. Having cleared the fast-growing pines and crossing the dunes to walk the low-tide sands, I was soon to observe a far-off distant figure moving toward me. I thought it a little peculiar to see another along this remote stretch, and assumed they must be from the Estate. Strangely, neither Duke nor Bob, who at the time were chasing through the surf paid any heed to the approaching individual – those who are blessed with knowing a Flattie will appreciate that this is completely out of character for such an exuberant breed!
In time, the advancing form and its movement betrayed the figure as that of a young woman; she eventually passed me close-by, but rather rudely I thought, without so much as the meekest acknowledgement of my greeting nor near presence.
After a minute or two I recalled the dogs, and together we walked a short while before taking shelter from the bracing wind amongst the dunes. Here I drank warming beverage from a flask and the dogs took fresh water carried in my rucksack. It was then I noticed the woman had turned and was now close to my vantage point, such that I was properly able to observe her in more detail as she moved by – accurate observation being one of the few skills I had gained from the long war: Her attire was a little dated; her loose long dark hair was carried upon the wind as she wandered with dedicated intent, head bowed and shoulders slightly hunched, searching.
There was little obvious strategy in her hunt; she moved across the intertidal zone behind what I believed was a pained expression, her eyes erratically scanning the damp sands left and right. Every now and again she would stoop and pick up a shell; this she closely examined before generally discarding without further ado. One shell, however, she carried to the waters edge, to wash clean and place to her ear – before this too was cast aside to continue her search. Again, the woman seemed utterly oblivious to my presence – as the dogs to hers!
As her path reached close to my position I called out, ‘It certainly is bracing don’t you think’ in an attempt to attract her attention – but to no avail. I watched her until she had passed maybe 200 yards before taking the boys off in the opposite direction.
Having returned to the Estate, I found the strangeness of the woman on the beach occupied my mind for the remainder of the day. Laying in bed that night I grew the more intrigued by her actions, and was soon to succumb to a strange sense of her being in sad possession of immense pain. It was then I made the decision to return to the coast, once time permitted, in the hope of again encountering this ‘Lady of the Sands’ – as I had coined her – and determinedly engage her in conversation. That commitment made, I edged towards a restless sleep.
The following late afternoon I found myself with some time alone an hour or so before sundown, and immediately headed for the coast. My rational brain told me that the chance of encountering the woman was slight, yet, having been drawn to the beach I became aware of her form some 400 yards or so distant. Her movements remained unchanged from those I had witnessed previously as she passed close-by – again, without acknowledging my presence and attempt at conversation.
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Tuesday September 18th, 1923.
The once labour intensive task of cutting and stacking bracken has been simplified by the Estate’s introduction of the horse-drawn mower. For Mac, the Clydesdale has long been the working horse of choice, and to draw the sickle-bar mower it is normal to hitch a couple of the youngsters for the task.
This afternoon the Farm Manager came across to my lodge to take tea which Ellen served with sumptuous sandwiches and cake. Mac asked if I would be willing to lend a hand with driving of the mower rig over the coming days. Sadly I was obliged to answer in the negative – my plans arranged to travel to the west coast after tomorrow's shoot to spend a couple of weeks amongst the mountains.
Whilst Ellen was out of the room, I seized upon the opportunity to discuss the enigmatic ‘Lady of the Sands’. Mac’s response shocked me; as in front of my very eyes, every part of this fine gentleman’s countenance noticeably crumbled. Before the opportunity for any explanation to pass between us Ellen re-entered the room, and at the sight of her Mac quickly regained his natural composure – with which I let the subject drop.
I have now had some time to peruse Mac’s response to my query that left him so distraught, and the look of anguish which passed between him and Ellen. I have decided not to mention the subject further, but to keep the matter to myself.
[Having spent some days in the Western Highlands, I returned to Duncarry on the 4th October. My intrigue regarding the woman on the beach having deepened – aided by old Mac’s extreme response to my enquiry. As soon as I was able I took to the coast with the dogs. JCA]
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Saturday October 6th, 1923.
The natural world was making preparation for the winter season to come. The air temperature was falling as the daylight hours reduced. Leaves of colour were tumbling from the trees and the waters of the Firth were cooling. With Bob and Duke running happy and free toward the surf I unexpectedly came across the ‘Lady of the Sands’ sitting on the high pebbled beach holding a whelk shell, large and clean. That weight of sadness I had previously observed had lifted, and this time she spoke, insistent that when she put the shell to her ear she could clearly hear the happy play of young children above the lapping waves – laughing and splashing in the shallow surf.
It was apparent that once this woman had experienced the very depths of despair but now she had found relief, and I was confronted with a bright radiance – I was happy for her. She then took two small coloured pillow-cases from her deep pockets, and carefully wrapped the shell before she stood; smiled broadly; and made her way up and over the dune into the forest. It was here that she began to run. Her black hair flowing in the breeze, she sprinted, laughing and easily outpaced me without so much as a single rearward glance until, to my dismay, she was gone. Rhatz! Shall I ever see her again?
[Although I was to make many a foray to the coastline during the remainder of my stay at Duncarry in the autumn of ‘23, my hopes of encountering the ‘Lady of the Sands’ came to naught, and in late October I made my return to London. Yet this mystifying woman continued to occupy my mind. JCA]
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Sunday February 24th, 1924.
I have experienced a heaviness of spirit today: It was mid-morning when aunt Katelyn telephoned me from Duncarry informing me of the sad passing of old man Mac last evening. Although not wholly unexpected, this news has left me disconsolate. I have lost many a good friend these past years; but the lose of none has struck me low as the death of this fine gentleman.
Plans are being made for his funeral – the steadfast Ellen having already spoken to my aunt and Robert, seeking permission for a service to take place in the old intimate family chapel on the estate, before Mac’s remains are laid to rest within the grounds he so loved. The family has consented to Ellen’s request, and Robert, as befits his position, has agreed the honoured task of delivering a eulogy. I will, of course, plan my travels north to attend once arrangements have been finalised, and telephone Ellen on the morrow to express my own heartfelt condolences.
Throughout the day a chilled wind has blown from the north, and the frail sky – standing constant on the brink of impending rain-bursts – has, on numerous instances, delivered a deluge.
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Monday March 3rd, 1924.
As I sat relaxed in my railway compartment, the journey south afforded me time to mull over the events of recent days:
Mac’s funeral had been a sometimes joyous celebration; sometimes solemn affair. Dear Ellen, supported by the wider ‘family’ of Duncarry was organised, practical and stoic, and I felt a pride and warmth towards her. Having fulfilled their responsibilities towards Mac and Ellen, Robert along with my aunt Katelyn had called at the lodge and formally asked if I would consider taking on the role of Estate Manager. I immediately thought ‘yes’, but correctly told them I would need a little thinking time and, if affirmative, a period to put my London affairs in order before I could join the Estate. We agreed that they would have my response to their offer by the week’s end and, if I were to take on the role, I would move to Duncarry mid-June.
Importantly, Ellen had given me a sealed envelope addressed in her own stylish hand. She insisted that I open it only once I had left the Estate, and true to her instruction, I read the letter maybe an hour or so into my train journey toward London.
The contents were warm and friendly, thanking me for attending old man Mac’s funeral and especially for ‘…a friendship that he treasured so dearly’. Indeed the letter gratifyingly stated that they both thought of me as ‘close kin’. It was, however, one particular phrase that I found myself reading repeatedly; it read, ‘...following the loss of his (Mac’s) daughter Esme and her family to war and accident.’ Now Esme is a name unknown to me, but I was struck with the sudden unshakable belief that she was the reason for Mac’s distress that previous September afternoon when I had enquired about the ‘Lady of the Sands’. Indeed I realised she was the very same woman, and that her lamented family included the children heard playing in the water when this woman held the shell to her ear, on that occasion in early October when I met her sat upon the beach.
Having spent a few days at Duncarry to attend the funeral of old Mac without venturing to the sands, I find that I must now confide to my journal the incident which occurred on my return arrival in London’s bustling Kings Cross terminus this evening: I walked the lengthy platform led by a burly porter transporting my luggage carving through the throng of varied humanity; my senses assaulted by the considerable noise; smoke and steam of locomotives; and the rushing about of people. On entering the busy concourse, I am convinced I saw her, the ‘Lady of the Sands’, there amid the heavy heaving mass of people. The young woman was laughing as she held a cupped hand to her ear – while holding my gaze, for one short moment that to me felt eternal. I was more than ever convinced that this was Esme – Mac’s lost daughter and Ellen’s sister.
[I find myself unable to properly rationalise this enigmatic ‘Lady of the Sands’ without indulgence in the supposed power of the supernatural. Yet, if this were so, then why she – a woman I have only fleetingly encountered – and not any of the boys from the Regiment lost under the worst of circumstances, and who have played much on my mind these past years; nor indeed old man MacPherson, whom I hold in such high regard?
Acquainted with the gentleman Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by way of his writings and – perhaps relevant to this treatise – his excellent reputation in the field of psychical study, I find myself driven to present before this renown luminary the compilation of these extracts; my sincere hope being that he will appraise these events and provide meaningful interpretation. To this end I shall enclose these excerpts with a cover letter to the President of the London Spiritualist Alliance. JCA]
