The Lammas Curse

by Anna Lord

  “Name of?”

  “Jack Frost. But his real name was Darcy Droitwych. They were married for three years and lived in Melbourne. He was twenty years her senior. He became crippled following a horse-riding accident and later killed himself. She inherited his estate too. After becoming widowed, she decided to come to England to seek out her family roots. That’s the reason I came here tonight. She has expressed a desire to meet you.”

  “Has she, indeed?”

  “I could introduce her if you like. I know you do not permit women to darken the doorstep of the Diogenes Club but I believe your lodgings are just across the road.”

  Mycroft pushed to his feet and moved his bulky frame with surprising suppleness to the large, Georgian, sash window that gave onto Pall Mall. He didn’t say anything for a moment but gave his concentration over to the window shutter, closing it against the swirling fog filling the street like smoke from a flueless fire trapped inside a darkened room.

  “I have moved lodgings since we last met. I now reside permanently upstairs. I have the topmost suite under the dome. It offers a spectacular panorama of London. I must show you some time. It is reserved for the president of our modest little club and since our last titular head recently shook off his mortal coil the baton has passed to me.”

  “Congratulations, Mycroft. President of the Diogenes Club sounds like a high honour. I know you were one of the six founding members, although, I hope you don’t mind my saying, I never pictured you as a committee man.”

  “I’m not, and I’m not exactly a President either. But you know how these things go – the more modest the club, the more pompous the title. It is actually Grand Master or primus baro. You should think about joining. I can put your name up for consideration if you like.”

  “Oh, no, the Micawber Club suits me very well. I feel quite at home there. Thank you, none the less. And getting back to the Countess – perhaps Claridges would make for a suitable rendezvous, or Brown’s Hotel which always seems more discrete and the electric lighting not quite so harsh on the retina.”

  Mycroft moved back to the fire and tossed his cigar end onto the flames. “Let me do some research first. I can check into her background and confirm the details you just imparted.”

  “Yes, of course,” agreed the doctor tactfully. “That would be the best way to go.”

  “You trust this young woman?”

  Dr Watson weighed the question carefully yet still failed to answer confidently. “Up to a point. I can’t help thinking of that saying about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. I thought it might be safer for all concerned to keep an eye on her.”

  “A wise strategy. What is your personal opinion?”

  “Personal opinion?”

  “Like, dislike, that sort of thing.”

  “Well, she’s not like anybody I have ever met - like and dislike are such pedestrian epithets, descriptions of lesser mortals. There’s a joie de vivre about her that is undeniably infectious. Once she gets an idea in her head there is no stopping her. And she takes sleuthing seriously. I get the impression it is not merely a game or way to pass the time or a means of allaying boredom but an innate calling. In that regard she reminds me of Sherlock most of all. She pursues loose threads with fervour and has a genuine knack for following several leads at the same time. When she learns to master the emotional side of things she will be formidable.”

  “I take it that means you will soon be placing an advertisement in the Times: V & W, Consulting Detectives, 221B Baker Street, London – no case too difficult.”

  Dr Watson guffawed loudly before remembering where he was and gagging on his own spit. “I wish I could say Never with conviction, but before we boarded the Devon train for our return trip to London I vowed never to become embroiled in another mystery with the Countess and by the time we reached Paddington I had already gone back on my word. I swear I don’t know if I acted of my own accord or whether she railroaded me into it.”

  “So you’ve already started work on another case?”

  “Not exactly. But if I am not intruding upon your time I wouldn’t mind hearing what you have to say concerning the venture we are about to embark upon.”

  “Not at all, old boy. Let’s ring for a coffee and then you can tell me all about it.”

  Mycroft moved to the bell pull on the other side of the fireplace and gave it two hard yanks, the number of yanks indicating that coffee was the beverage being called for. He also threw some more fuel on the fire and gave the coals a bit of a prod with the poker to save the butler the task, thus minimizing interruption. Dr Watson drained his whiskey and began to breath normally again, relieved he was not about to be shamefully booted out.

  After the coffee had been delivered and dispensed he broached the second topic that had brought him halfway across London on a nippy autumn evening.

  “What do you know about the Lammermoor golf tournament?” he said, leaving the question deliberately open-ended.

  Mycroft’s ghost of a smile indicated that he knew quite a bit. “I know that Scotland Yard is checking into it as we speak. I also know that Lord Cruddock is putting pressure on our finest detectives to come to a swift and decisive conclusion.”

  “Oh,” said the doctor feeling suddenly disappointed. “They will resolve matters fairly quickly and the tournament will continue.”

  “The tournament will continue, yes, but I wouldn’t say they will resolve anything anytime soon. They will conclude the three deaths to be accidental.”

  “Is that your opinion too?”

  Mycroft spooned some sugar into his coffee and stirred it soundlessly before securing the gaze of his listener. “You play golf, Dr Watson. What are the chances of three players in the same tournament succumbing to fatal accidents in the space of a fortnight?”

  “So you don’t believe they were accidents?”

  “What was it Sherlock always said about coincidence?”

  “Mmm, yes,” recalled the doctor, “but the first death puzzles me. It would be devilishly hard to hit someone on the head with a stray golf ball. I don’t consider myself a bad player but I would have to hit a million golf balls before I could hit a target like that and it is all down to pure luck - a bit like a hole in one. There would be a million easier ways to kill a person. It is a most unlikely murder.”

  “No argument there, but what if you hit them on the back of the head with the end of a nine iron and then after they had slumped to the ground you rammed a golf ball into their skull in the exact same spot where the nine iron had made a dent, and the ball was covered with blood and the nine iron was nowhere to be seen?” conjectured Mycroft. “The next person to come along would quite rightly conclude the deceased had been struck by a stray ball.”

  “Oh, yes, I see - if there were no witnesses, that is, but what about the caddy?”

  “The caddy was not out caddying. The golfer in question, Chuck Fitzalan, had decided to go out on his own in the early hours of the morning to acquaint himself with the layout of the fairways. There were no other players out on the links at the time but some of the local lads often hunt for stray golf balls which they sell at the market, and sometimes they have a few hits on the sly at the same time. The ball in question did not appear to have an owner. And since it was the first death no one was looking for it to be murder.”

  “Just a freak accident.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And the second accident? Was the caddy conveniently absent?”

  “The Italian, Giuseppe Sforza, had his caddy with him, but the caddy noticed that the putter was not in the bag soon after they set off so he rushed back to the golf pavilion to get it before they reached the first green. In the meantime, Mr Sforza played on and must have hit his ball into or near a water hazard and somehow ended up in the water too. He was found tangled in some bull rushes. The water was only ten inches deep.”

  “No signs of any contusions? No signs of a struggle?”

  “Nothing of any sign
ificance apart from a large bruise to his chin conducive to suffering a severe knock after slipping on wet grass, landing face first, rolling down an embankment and ending up in a shallow pool. The caddy panicked on seeing the body floating face down and immediately cried out for help. By the time a dozen people trampled the scene there was no chance to check for footprints. Again, no one was assuming it was murder.”

  “The bruise on the chin could have been from a knock-out punch to the jaw making it an easy thing to hold the head down until drowning occurred,” suggested the doctor, drawing from experience. “And the third death?”

  “Peter Lancaster, the Australian, was taking a shortcut from the twelfth fairway to the thirteenth when a tree branch fell on him, killing him instantly. His death was a little more interesting than the previous two. There was thick fog so visibility was poor. The caddy had hung back to mark the scorecard while Mr Lancaster had hurried ahead and taken the shortcut through a woody bosque in order to relieve himself, so it could not have been a pre-meditated act but simply opportune and daring.”

  “What sort of bosque?”

  “A spinney of silver birch trees.”

  “Birches are not renowned for dropping large branches – twigs, yes.”

  “Quite correct, but the branch did happen to strike him on the top of the head as if it fell from on high.”

  “Someone could have wielded it and brought it down to make it look that way,” the doctor volunteered.

  “Yes, and since it was the third death it needed to look accidental in all respects.”

  “I suppose no one checked to see if the branch had broken loose recently, I mean, that the break was fresh, not weathered by time?”

  “No one checked, as you say, and the branch soon ended up as firewood, but after three unfortunate accidents the tournament was halted. The local police constable did his best but he was out of his depth and probably felt intimidated by his lordship.”

  “Who called in the Yard?”

  “Lady Moira Cruddock, mother of the current Lord Cruddock. He was hostile to the idea of bringing in the Yard because of the negative publicity but she went ahead and did it anyway. She lives in the gatehouse, not at the castle, and has made no secret of the fact she is vehemently opposed to her son turning the Lammas moor into a golf course.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember reading that she is a Spiritualist of some renown who believes that the spirits of the dead have been disturbed.”

  “A nice story to put about if one is planning to nip the golf course in the bud, not that I am suggesting she is a murderess. There is more to this mystery than meets the eye.”

  “In what way?”

  “You could say: in witch way.”

  “Which way?”

  “Witch as in Wicca – and though I might make a pun of it the Scottish take their witchcraft seriously.”

  “No need to remind me of the black stain on Scottish history and the horrible suffering inflicted on so many innocent souls, but I don’t see the connection to the three deaths.”

  “Some details were officially suppressed to avoid superstitious panic.”

  Dr Watson gulped the dregs of his coffee and carefully replaced his cup and saucer on the butler’s tray. “Please go on,” he said, his interest in the case rising above and beyond its connection to his Scottish roots.

  “The first deceased, Chuck Fitzalan, was found with his left hand splayed out and the two middle fingers missing. At first it appeared as if they had been cut off. But there was no blood apart from the head injury. The fingers were merely bent back in the classic horned god pose.”

  “Deliberate or…I was going to say coincidental but I must wean myself off that word! Who was the first person on the scene?”

  “Two people - Lars Larsenssen and Bruce Bancoe. They are a player-pair and decided to also acquaint themselves with the course when they spotted the American setting off to explore the links prior to breakfast. They quickly finished their own breakfast and followed about twenty minutes after the American. Mr Fitzalan was a left-hander and they noticed straight away that his golfing hand looked odd. Try it,” invited Mycroft. “Bend your two middle fingers under.”

  “I see what you mean. It doesn’t feel natural. The knuckles protrude if you try to make the whole of the fingers disappear.”

  “Even more so if your hand is resting on the ground. It was discovered later that the knuckles were broken, as if someone had trod on his hand rather brutally to flatten if out.”

  “So much for the notion of coincidence – an important lesson to learn before I travel to Scotland! What about death number two, the Italian?”

  “Mr Sforza - found floating face down in what amounted to not much more than a large puddle - was not alone in the water. Tangled in the bull rushes was also a cat – drowned.”

  Dr Watson’s eyebrows expressed incredulity. “A moggy drowning in a puddle is most unlikely. I presume it was a black cat?”

  Mycroft nodded approvingly. “You are starting to get the picture.”

  Encouraged, the doctor’s brain hurried ahead. “That brings us to number three.”

  “A corn dolly was found dangling from the tree that had decided to drop its limb at the exact same time that Mr Lancaster had decided to relieve himself.”

  “Mmm, I see,” murmured the doctor, rubbing the unshaven chin which was showing the early makings of a beard, “the picture grows clearer.”

  “Or becomes more obscure,” countered Mycroft judiciously. “Are these murders about vaulting ambition – winning the tournament at all costs by eliminating the competition – or are they about shutting down the golf course by foul means not fair – pointing the finger at some harmless old women by stirring the cauldron of superstition and fear? When are you intending to leave for Scotland?”

  “I have reserved a private smoker on The Royal Scot for the Countess and myself for the end of this week, plus two second class seats for her maid and manservant. She never travels without them. I have not yet decided whether they are Ukrainian Cossacks or Bolshevik provocateurs.”

  Mycroft’s brows lifted, a sign that he was processing this last bit of information with heightened interest. “Where are you planning to stay?”

  “The Countess owns an old peel tower at the southern end of Loch Maw. It may be a crumbling ruin. It belonged to her late aunt. She has never seen it. If it turns out to be uninhabitable we will take rooms at the Marmion Hydro Hotel.”

  “Are you acquainted with Lord Cruddock?”

  Dr Watson shook his head.

  “I will let his lordship know you are holidaying in the area and that you enjoy a game of golf. It will serve as an introduction. He’s an Oxford man, not too high-brow, a couple of thirds, but a first class sportsman and a keen shot. The Cruddock estate is about 30,000 acres, most of it given over to deer stalking and a pheasant shoot, with some grazing of sheep and an ancient forest of Caledonian pine for timber, but there isn’t the money in such pursuits as there used to be and his lordship has lost a considerable fortune lately on the baccarat tables of London, hence the proposal to establish a golf course to supplement his income. You are aware he is engaged to be married to the Irish actress, Lola O’Hara?”

  “A bit of a cliché – a lord and an actress. I realize she is a looker but I cannot help feeling cynical when I hear of such mis-matches.”

  “I think he will get more out of the mis-match than she. She will bring esprit to a remote estate and put an isolated golf course on the map. He will get tons of free publicity, especially in Ireland and America. She will get a tiara that she can wear several times a year. Quite frankly, I think she has drawn the short straw.”

  Dr Watson nodded weakly and pushed to his feet. He felt weighed down and wearied at the prospect of another battle with the forces of evil so soon after the last. “I won’t take up any more of your valuable time. I appreciate that you are a busy man and I thank you for seeing me at such short notice. Good evening to you, Mr Holmes.”
>
  “Never too busy for you, Dr Watson,” said the other, employing a warm and brotherly tone as he ushered him to the door. “I will let you know what I decide about the Countess as soon as I have decided it. Until then it may be prudent to keep certain matters to ourselves while we keep a close eye on her. By the way, the invitation to join our modest club stands open should you change your mind. Take care in Scotland. There is more to this matter than meets the eye.”

  Big Ben struck midnight as Dr Watson hugged the perpendicular shadows of Pall Mall, leaning into the wind that whipped through the stately avenue and flogged the dead leaves littering the gutter. Eschewing a hansom, he turned a corner, and then another, and soon found himself in a darker place, where the hissing gas lamps burned dimmer, muffled by a dirty woolly yellow fog that burned his throat and lungs. His footsteps hardly made a sound as he navigated the narrow lanes like a noctambulist, ghostwalking the city that never sleeps, running the murky gauntlet of gutter-crawlers, pimps and prostitutes, thieves and murderers, without even thinking about where he was going, before realising three things quite suddenly in quick succession with a jolt that brought him up sharp: Number 1 - he still held misgivings about the mysterious young woman who had appeared from nowhere and taken over his life. Number 2 - if not for the fact the next case took them to Scotland he would never have agreed to go with her. Number 3 - Mycroft, a man not given to repeating himself, had twice used the term: more than meets the eye.

  3

  The Royal Scot

  Replete with tartan kilt, sporran and hefty bag pipes, a Highlander was piping passengers aboard The Royal Scot.

  “So much cheerier than a whistle,” commented the Countess as she hurried along the platform, an image of sartorial elegance in a tailored travelling costume of moire marron replete with a fox fur stole, the long-line jacket nipped at the waist and dropping slightly at the back.

  Dr Watson, wearing a mud-brown tweed suit, trailed in her fashionable wake, wheezing asthmatically. No matter how many cigarettes he smoked it didn’t seem to improve his lung capacity. In fact, if he hadn’t known better, he’d have said the opposite occurred, but who was he to question the gods of Harley Street. He was the one who had been running late, and since he had been holding onto the tickets for their journey, she had been forced to wait under the soaring canopy of the bustling Euston station. He had spotted her at a glance – conspicuously perched atop a gigantic travelling trunk, insouciantly smoking an aromatic Turkish cigarette, surrounded by an artful arrangement of expensive travel trunks, portmanteaux and hat boxes, stacked one on top of another like a collection of tiered wedding cakes and she the unblushing bride sans groom with her dainty feet resting on a smashing new set of golf clubs that were as desirable as the slender turn of her ankle.