by Anna Lord
The
Lammas
Curse
ANNA LORD
Book Two
Watson & The Countess
Series
Copyright © 2015 by Anna Lord
Melbourne, Australia
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
1
Ides of October
“One should always have something sensational to read on the train,” teased Countess Volodymyrovna, noting the number of newspapers her sleuthing companion had tucked under his arm. She was paraphrasing the bon viveur of the beau monde, the soi-disant Genius otherwise known as Mr Wilde, but her words fell flat.
Averse to anything sensational, Dr Watson had chosen something safe. This included a copy of The Times, The Spectator, The Strand Magazine, Sporting Life, Tatler, The Penny Weekly and The New Good-Housekeeping Journal for Young Ladies. That ought to do it he decided as he settled grumpily into his seat, determined to avoid discussion re following in the footsteps of Sherlock Holmes. And for almost fifty-five minutes he had managed to stay safely hidden behind the pages of his broadsheets but when curiosity is piqued it soon finds voice.
“I say, there’s an article in The Times about Cruddock Castle,” he ventured, clearing the rust from his throat with a raspy cough. “Isn’t that the place where Sir Henry Baskerville’s neighbour, the squire of Drogo, shot his first stag?”
Countess Volodymyrovna stirred without lifting her gaze. She didn’t know which was worse - the faded pages of A Short History of English Jurisprudence or the torpid undulations of the English countryside unrolling like a patchwork quilt cobbled a thousand years ago to make a blanket for a chalk giant.
“The estate owned by his god-mother somewhere in Scotland?”
“The Scottish Borders to be precise.”
“What of it?” she yawned.
“Well,” he continued, inflection rising now that he’d cleared his throat. “Lord Cruddock is holding a golf tournament. The tournament was intended to promote the new golf course he has recently established in the Lammermoor Hills. But the contest has been halted. There have been three unfortunate accidents resulting in death. The article implies the deaths may be attributable to supernatural -”
“Let me see that!” A surge of blood had her snatching the newspaper from his hands. She began to read out loud. “It has been suggested by the highly respected dowager, Lady Moira Cruddock, that the three unfortunate accidents are not accidents at all and that the deaths are the result of supernatural phenomena. The Lammermoor, originally known as the Lammas moor, is the site of an historic battle between Celts and Saxons in the tenth century. The moor is a graveyard for thousands of slain warriors. Moreover, near the fourteenth green lie the ruins of Lammas Abbey, built in the eleventh century and destroyed by Viking raiders in the twelfth, another graveyard for countless restless souls. Lady Cruddock, a Spiritualist of some renown, claims that the spirits of the dead have been disturbed. She fervently believes that a curse hangs over the tournament and that the golf course is doomed.”
The recent thrill of solving the Baskerville case came back to the Countess in one, breathless, vivifying rush. Prior to boarding the Devon train she had been wondering how to circumvent his vow to go their separate ways once they returned to London. In her mind, their pairing had been a tour de force which she likened to a perfect marriage and their first case had been the dream honeymoon. Her nerve-endings were still tingling from the orgiastic experience as she drew breath and continued to read at a rollicking pace.
“Three players have died since the commencement of the tournament. Chuck Fitzalan the current world champion from the United States of America, Giuseppe Sforza from Italy, and the highly regarded Australian newcomer, Peter Lancaster.”
“Can I have my paper back?” he grumbled.
“Not yet. The American was struck by a stray golf ball and died from head injuries. The Italian drowned after he slipped into a water hazard. The Australian was killed when a tree branch fell on him as he was taking a shortcut from the twelfth to the thirteenth fairway. I didn’t realize golf could be so dangerous. I believe you are an aficionado of the game, Dr Watson?”
He knew better than to ask how she knew. “Yes, I’m a member at Greenknowe. I got in early. It’s now closed to new members. There are currently sixty golf courses in England and the number is increasing by ten or twenty each year, none as yet for women players. Golf is not considered to be a dangerous game. The only death I ever heard of was when a player at Woodhurst was struck by lightning during a thunderstorm.”
“How fascinating! Not being struck by lightning, I meant that golf could be so popular. I have always considered it to be a rather dull and pointless pastime. My late husband had a golf course laid out at our country estate in the Yarra Valley and when I suggested that he make the holes a little bit bigger he reacted most regrettably. I cannot say he ever enjoyed a game, though he did persist with it to the point where his nerves suffered terribly. He encouraged me to try my hand but I suspect what he really wanted was a caddy who would not mock him behind his back. Notwithstanding such an unfortunate introduction to the game, I think I might take a trip up north before Christmas and arrange to have some private lessons with the winner of the competition. Yes, now that I look at golf with more mature eyes it seems the sort of exercise that is ideal for a lady and I have always looked good in sporting attire.”
She delivered her little speech in restrained and measured tones, having decided right from the outset to downplay her eagerness to investigate this fresh mystery. If she sounded too keen he would simply refuse to accompany her to the Scottish Borders and, like most men, once he had planted his foot it would be impossible for him to alter his stance. The notion of actually swinging a golf club was the last thing she intended, but men were such perverse creatures – bless their competitive hearts. “Do you consider golf a difficult game to master?”
“Not too difficult,” he replied circumspectly, giving up on getting his newspaper back and picking up the nearest magazine instead. “I could give you -” He stopped abruptly.
“What were you going to say?”
“Nothing.” He opened up Sporting Life and hid behind it. A few moments later he lowered it again. “There’s an article here on the same subject. It goes into more detail.”
She tried to nab it but he pre-empted her and held tight.
“Read it out loud,” she pouted.
“The Lammermoor Tournament is a contest by elimination. Twelve professional players have been invited to participate and two wild cards have been issued to two promising amateurs from South Africa inviting them to try their hand. The players play in pairs. One pair plays each day and at the end of the week the lowest scoring pair is eliminated. The following week the same thing happens, and so on until there is only one pair left. The final pair play-off as singles and the winner receives a silver chalice, one hundred pounds, and becomes a life member of the Lammermoor Golf Club.”
“Sounds like a lucrative vacation. Where have all these lucky golfers been accommodated? Is there a hotel attached to the club house?”
He perused the article further. “I say, this sounds jolly nice! The players are staying at Cruddock Castle as guests of his lordship. It is described here as the stately and baronial jewel of the Lammermoor Hills, a gothic revival masterpiec
e that served as a model for Abbotsford, the mansion house belonging to Sir Walter Scott. Caddies, tournament assistants, and interested spectators are being accommodated at the nearby Marmion Hydro Hotel situated on the western bank of Loch Maw which offers a picturesque vista over the golf course and the ruins of Lammas Abbey.”
“What loch did you say?”
“Loch Maw. Why? Are you familiar with it?”
“No, but Aunt Zoya owned a house in Scotland and I think it was near a loch starting with the letter M.”
He rolled his eyes. “There are hundreds of lochs in Scotland and at least a dozen of them start with M.”
She ignored the geography lesson and the patronizing tone. “My aunt kept promising we would one day make a visit but we never did. It was, I gather, a bit out of the way. All her lovers gave her a house. That was the rule. She had dozens of them all over the world.”
“Lovers or houses?”
“Both – The house had a name. I’ll think of it in a minute.” Her elegant brows pleated as she steepled elongated fingers to help centre her thoughts. “The only thing I remember is that it is perched on a tiny island at the edge of a loch near a town with the utterly stupid name of Dunce.”
“I think you might mean Duns.”
“Possibly. Probably. Anyhow, the house can only be reached by a footbridge which spans the narrowest point of the loch - sounds frightfully inconvenient. Perhaps I should check with the solicitor who handles the business pertaining to my late aunt’s numerous homes – fifteen at last count. I think there’s an old housekeeper, no electric power, of course. There might just be enough time to make that visit before winter sets in.”
He swapped Sporting Life for The Spectator. “There’s an article in here too! It details the handicaps of all twelve players. The two favourites for the play-off are Mr Larssensen a Norwegian and Mr Bancoe the current Scottish champion, although two wild cards from South Africa, a brother and sister, Mr Carter Dee and Miss Catherine Dee, appear to be serious contenders. They happen to be wards of his lordship and are thrilled that a golf course has been established near to the castle where they can hone their game on a daily basis. The article goes on to say that the gently rolling hills of the Lammas moor were the perfect setting for a golf course and the locals are excited at the prospect of the Prince Regent visiting next year in order to open the new club house that is to be built on the site of the abbey ruins.”
“I met Prince Tum-Tum once in Paris. What else does the article say?”
“Not much.” He turned the page. “Ah! Here’s a small map. It shows the layout of the eighteen holes, the sand bunkers, the water hazards, the position of Cruddock Castle, and some local landmarks. There’s a dwelling marked here at the southern end of the loch – Graymalkin.”
“May I have a look?”
“Certainly.” He handed it over.
“Mmm, the name rings a bell. Yes, I’m fairly certain that is it – Graymalkin! It’s a shame you will be busy in London otherwise you could have joined me in Scotland.”
“What makes you think I will be busy?”
“Elementary, my dear Dr Watson. Every fashionable London hostess will be rushing out invitations for the pre-Christmas social whirl of musical soirees, winter balls and après-theatre suppers. Your mantelpiece will groan under the weight of your popularity.” She hardly paused for breath. “I do believe The Royal Scot goes non-stop to Glasgow now, and then onto Edinburgh. It cannot be too far to Duns by local rail and then a short carriage ride to Loch Maw. I should be there by the end of the week.”
An air of broody sentimentality fell over his face like a melancholy shroud as he turned to gaze out of the window while he extracted a cigarette from a silver case. “I was born in Edinburgh.”
“How nice for you - such a lovely city. Light one up for me. I must send a telegram as soon as we arrive at Paddington.” She deliberately glossed over the fact he was a native Caledonian as she tapped her pearly talons on the buttoned leather seat while she waited for her cigarette. “If Aunt Zoya’s old pile is uninhabitable I shall stay at the Marmion Hydro Hotel. There’s an advertisement here and a photo. The pepperpot turrets look charming. Fifteen bedrooms, plus three deluxe suites and a royal suite with its own balcony. A grand dining room overlooking the loch. A tennis court. A sunken hydro bath in the Roman style. And a Swiss chef who specializes in fondue.”
“My wife had a niece who lived in Peebles,” he digressed, waxing nostalgic as he passed her a lighted cigarette. “She worked as nursery governess to Lord and Lady Trefoyles but the child died of Scarlet Fever. No blame was attached to her but she was dismissed nonetheless. Last I heard she had gained employment as companion to an old lady somewhere in the Borders. I have been thinking for some time that I should look her up since she has no other family. Her mother and father and sister drowned several years ago when a ferry they were travelling in capsized. Mary would have wanted me to make sure her niece was not forgotten.”
“What is the name of your wife’s niece?”
He puffed on a Bradley while a dozen names flitted through his head then exhaled while a dozen more went the same way. He used to be good with names, he could remember them at the drop of a hat, but lately he had noticed he was getting slower. He put it down to soft living and too much socializing. He was being introduced to so many people the names were all becoming a bit of a blur and the ones that mattered were starting to elude him. Adele or Aline? Ah! Yes! “Miss Adeline Lambert!”
“Well, if I should come across anyone by that name I shall be sure to give them your regards.” She trotted that out in a deliberately cavalier manner as she reached across the divide and selected The New Good-Housekeeping Journal for Young Ladies from amongst the untidy collection of newspapers, periodicals and magazines littering the seat. “Ah, just as I thought! An article about the tournament from a lady’s point of view! This is interesting. Lola O’Hara, the Irish actress, will be holidaying at Cruddock Castle for the duration of the tournament. She is engaged to be married to Lord Cruddock. The wedding will take place on the fifth of November, the same day that the tournament concludes. It will be an intimate evening wedding followed by a gala ball, commencing with some traditional highland dancing and finishing with a lively Scottish reel. The dancing will be followed by a wedding banquet and some fireworks at midnight to celebrate the success of the tournament and the happy nuptials.”
“That does not bode well,” he said grimly, flicking cigarette ash into the ashtray set into the burr walnut panelling under the window.
“Don’t you approve of fireworks?”
“I meant the allusion to The Bride of Lammermoor.”
“The novel by Sir Walter Scott? I thought you derided simpering romanticism?”
“It is not simpering romanticism.”
“Why? Because it is written by a man?”
He knew better than to let her bait him but the reputation of a fellow author and a countryman was at stake. “If anything it is a salutary lesson against simpering romanticism.”
“If it features a virginal and vulnerable heroine ill-used by men then you can put it in the same category as Mrs Radcliffe and Mr le Fanu. I might get myself a copy. I can read it on the train as it whizzes north. Oh, and it says here that the real jewel in the crown of Lammermoor is not the gothic revival, architectural masterpiece designed by Alexander MacMackie but the Lammas tiara, which the bride will wear during the wedding ceremony. There’s a publicity photo of Lola O’Hara starring in the new version of Mr Wilde’s old play – An Ideal Husband – taken in Dublin to promote the re-staging.”
“I had hoped to catch Mr Wilde’s play when it came to London but I was holidaying in Biarritz and stayed longer than I had planned due to a bout of bronchitis. Is there a photo of the tiara?”
“No, just Lola. Here, take a look.” She handed him the magazine.
“Mmm, yes, she’s a corker! All that red hair! The image of a rainbow on fire springs to mind. His lordship is a lu
cky man. Imagine waking up to a rainbow gracing your pillow!”
“Imagine how splendid the Lammas tiara will look gracing that rainbow! I hope I have the chance to meet her. That would be the highlight. A shame you cannot come.”
“Who says I cannot come?” he responded peevishly as he handed back the magazine and absently picked up a copy of Tatler. “You make it sound as if you don’t want me to come.” He lowered his gaze to avoid eye-contact then a moment later coughed phlegmatically and perked up. “By Jove! Here’s another article on the same subject! Listen to this! This article has the rotten cheek to suggest Lord Cruddock received a life peerage from the Queen and was named Baron Dunravin not for his philanthropy but for offering to be named as co-respondent in the divorce between the Duke and Duchess of Strathbowness saving the Prince Regent from yet another embarrassing scandal with a married woman.”
“Not surprising! His mother will insist on living forever! Tum-Tum is bored and cannot help himself! And I’m sorry you feel aggrieved but you only have yourself to blame.”
“Is that so?”
“Remember what you said? Our relationship ends when we get back to London.”
“I was referring to our sleuthing relationship. We can still see each other.”
“But not in Scotland.”
“And why ever not not Scotland?”
“Well, I’m sure the last thing you want is another mystery to embroil yourself in and let’s face it this tournament has all the hallmarks of a first class puzzle worthy of Sherlock Holmes: Three deaths, a doomed golf course, a cursed tournament, a Scottish Spiritualist, some angry spirits, and a stunning, red-haired, Irish actress.” She made sure to pause for dramatic effect and elicit a languorous sigh as she exchanged the ladies’ journal for The Strand Magazine. “What’s more, right now I am staring at a rather fierce looking chap in a turban.”
