The Lammas Curse

by Anna Lord

  “It was something about birds. Oh, dear, I cannot remember exactly. When Miss O’Hara swooned it gave me a fright and everything just flew right out of my mind.”

  The Countess, who was enjoying a coffee and a quiet conversation with the Rajah of Govinda, remembered it perfectly and recited:

  “The whitebird calls tomorrow,

  The redbird smiles hollow,

  The blackbird cries sorrow,

  The bluebird will follow.”

  Lady Moira nodded knowingly and smiled strangely.

  “What did you make of our evening at Cruddock Castle?” Dr Watson put to his companion when they were in the landau trundling back to Graymalkin under the cover of midnight clouds that blotted out the astrological vault.

  “I hardly know where to start.”

  “Start with the dramatis personae, I mean, the cast of characters, I mean, the other guests. What impression did you gain?”

  “Well, the Rajah of Govinda has set his sights on making me his fourth wife.”

  “What! That is not even relevant! Not to mention totally absurd! How could you possibly know something like that after spending a few hours in the man’s company?”

  “A woman always knows.”

  “Ah, of course! Female intuition!”

  “That term which you just trotted out so derisorily is more or less a way of explaining how the subconscious mind overrides the rational part of the brain, picking up signals that would otherwise pass unnoticed by the five senses which are busy keeping up with logical thought.”

  He did not want to get embroiled in an argument about suffragette-ist mumbo-jumbo at this late hour. “I will yield to your definition for the time being. Let’s get back to your impression of the other guests.”

  “Lola O’Hara is pregnant.”

  His jaw dropped. “Did she confide in you after dinner?”

  “I surmised it for myself.”

  “Oh, this is too much! You are trying to rile me!”

  “Pas du tout. If I wanted to rile you I would tell you that she slipped upstairs with her lover after dinner for un moment d’amour while everyone else was distracted.”

  “That is scandalous! It borders on slander! What lover? And, and, even if it were true why should it rile me?”

  “Because you were panting after her like a lovelorn puppy.”

  “Now you are being deliberately provocative!”

  “I cannot help it if you cannot accept the truth when you hear it.”

  He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Very well, tell me how you could possibly know she slipped upstairs with her lover?”

  “Both she and Mr Larssensen arrived late to the library but from separate doors so as not to invite suspicion by arriving together via the same door. Both had their hair and clothes in slight disarray. The first person she looked for when she entered was the Viking and then her fiancé.”

  “That is false and I can prove it,” he said with conviction. “Mr Dee arrived straight after Miss O’Hara and announced they had been checking the costumes together.”

  The Countess gave a tinkly laugh of genuine amusement. “You didn’t believe that fairy story! Mark my words! Mr Dee will soon have a starring role in the play.”

  “Miss O’Hara was adamant he would play a witch. And she didn’t strike me as the sort of woman who changes her mind once her mind is made up. What else did you notice?”

  “Lord Cruddock is not the father of her child.”

  Dr Watson slapped the side of his head and groaned. “You have not yet explained how you even know she is pregnant and now you profess to know who the father of the child is not!”

  “Calm down. Your grammar is starting to slip. I know she is pregnant because she did not eat any calves’ liver. And she did not drink more than a mouthful of either the red or white wine. And she waved away the brandy that was proffered to her after fainting. And she found the smell of the black pudding overpowering and offensive because her nose wrinkled up at it and she appeared to gag. And when we first arrived and she held out her hand to you, which you salivated over like a drooling puppy, she rested the other hand on her belly, a tell-tale sign that a woman is with child. And her waist and breasts are much larger than in her photo. And her ankles are swollen.”

  He needed a moment to take it all in and didn’t reply for a minute or two. “Your reasoning is nothing more than conjecture. Circumstantial evidence hardly amounts to proof. And I did not salivate!”

  “You wanted an impression. I gave you one. Shall I tell you why I think Lord Cruddock is not the father of her child?”

  “Oh, very well! Why not!”

  “Lord Cruddock is fifty years of age or thereabouts yet he has never fathered a child though he has been linked with a string of ineligible women. Most wealthy bachelors would have sired a schoolroom of illegitimate waifs by age fifty. Recall the Duke of Chasleton, the Earl of Lomond, Viscount Devereaux and all the royal bastards throughout history. Baron Dunravin has not fathered a single one.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “Miss Dee.”

  “When?”

  “When I befriended her in the lounge car of The Royal Scot.”

  “You believe her?”

  “Yes, though I admit she did not state it in exactly those terms.”

  “Oh, I see! What terms did she state it in?”

  “Mind your grammar,” she reminded, sounding just like his mother when he was a boy of eight and had trouble parsing. “She described how her father and his lordship grew up together on the Cruddock estate. They were inseparable friends. Mr Crawford Dee, her father, was the son of the ghillie. The ghillie hailed from an ancient and highly respected Scottish family that had fallen on hard times - Lairds of Colcquoun. Her father, rather than following in his own father’s footsteps, went to South Africa to make his fortune when such fortunes were still easy to make. He quickly became one of the richest men on the Cape but he was an inveterate gambler and a poor speculator and just as quickly lost it all and shot himself. Over the years Lord Cruddock was a regular visitor to South Africa and it was openly discussed and understood by all parties concerned that because he would never sire any children of his own he would be both god-father to and ward of his best friend’s off-spring.”

  “I see,” murmured the doctor. “The implication there is that if not for his engagement to Miss O’Hara the Dee twins would have been his sole beneficiaries.”

  “Miss Dee did not say so directly but I took that to be the case.”

  “Do you think the Dees know that Miss O’Hara is pregnant?”

  The Countess did not need to think for long. “Yes,” she said. “Catherine Dee is extremely observant and perspicacious. And I believe she would share her observations with her brother, which means he would be aware of it too, though…” she stopped mid-stream - unusual for her.

  “Though?” prompted the doctor.

  “Well, there is something odd about Carter Dee.”

  “Odd? In what way?”

  “I’m not sure. I cannot put my finger on it. It’s just a feeling I have. There is more to him than meets the eye, and, well, I would not like to have an assignation with him alone after dark.” She gave a perceptible shiver then laughed softly to make light of the unnerving sensation. “I think a ghost just walked on my grave.”

  Gently, he placed his hand on top of hers where it rested on the seat. “Tread carefully,” he warned. “We cannot allow ourselves to forget there have been three murders already. And, yes, there is no doubt they were murders.”

  “Oh, Dammit!” she exclaimed suddenly.

  His hand shot back like a jack-in-the-box. “What is it?”

  “I just remembered Miss Dee forgot to give me her copy of the play. With all that weird business in the library and the fainting spells, it must have skipped her mind. I will have to return to Cruddock Castle tomorrow and collect it. I might walk instead of taking the landau. I can check out the abbey ruins on my way. I can even
start learning my lines on the way home. Oh! It will be so thrilling to be on stage with the famous Lola O’Hara. Just think of it!”

  “Yes,” he muttered, feeling sick at the mere thought. “Just think of it.”

  The carriage entered Jackdaw Wood and neither said anything further. The dark wood was a place of reverential hush and it had that same hushing effect on those who entered it. Even the night seemed to hold its breath. There was no whooshing sound of the wind through the trees, no hoot from an owl, no cries of a vixen. The only sound was that of the slow rolling wheels of the carriage but even that was muffled by the miry ground cushioned by centuries of leaf litter and moss.

  Once they came out on the other side of the wood moonlight broke through the clouds and glanced off the inky water of Loch Maw. It limned the pock-marked stones of Graymalkin, squatting on its impregnable piece of bedrock in the shadows of the riverbank. Fedir and Xenia took the landau and the horses into the barn where Horace had chosen to sleep to protect his precious property from horse thieves while the doctor and the Countess hurried across the footbridge.

  They had crossed the courtyard and had reached the flight of steps when they heard a murmur of voices. At the foot of the steps was a tiny window, not much bigger than a leper’s squint, set into the thickness of the stone. It provided a glimpse into the kitchen. The doctor, dreaming of his warm bed and his toasty fire, quickly mounted the steps but the Countess, ever curious, paused. The pane of glass was thick and grimy. It was like peering through a magnifying lens held at the wrong distance. The edges of the room were bathed in gloom but in the heart of the kitchen, in the middle of a round table, winked a pale and lonely candle set in a simple pewter holder. The moony halo of golden light cast a ghostly glow over the threesome who sat hunched around the little table studying what appeared to be a map.

  9

  Lammas Abbey

  Wearing a warm, winter Redingote, cut en princesse, Countess Volodymyrovna set off on foot for Cruddock Castle straight after breakfast, her mind ticking over Mrs Ross’s claim that there had been only one visitor to Graymalkin the previous evening.

  “Only my sister, Mrs Ardkinglas, paid a call last night,”

  The Countess initially pressed the point, for she was certain a third person had been sitting at the kitchen table, though she could not say who it was since that person was wearing a hooded cloak and had their back to the grimy glass.

  “It was only my cloak hanging on the back of the chair,” dismissed Mrs Ross. “A witchy wax-light can conjure queer shadows that play tricks on the eye, especially when you steal a gledge through wonky glass,” she added with conviction. “It was past midnight and you had had a long day, madame, and a big night at the castle too, and were just imagining a third person.”

  “You appeared to be studying a map,” persisted the Countess.

  “My sister is thinking of travelling to Berwick-on-Tweed at Christmastime and I was showing her the shortest route on my map.”

  “Oh, what a stroke of luck! I have a hopeless sense of direction,” the Countess lied. “Could I borrow your map for today?”

  “I am sorry, madame. My sister took the map away with her last night.”

  Gingerly, the Countess crossed at the shallowest point of Fickle Beck, lifting her Redingote above the water while leaping from stone to stone, wondering why someone who had lived in an area for years would need a map to visit a main town like Berwick. Moreover, why would an hotelier on the brink of bankruptcy close their hotel during the Christmas season?

  The Countess had just crossed Widdershins Brig and reached the edge of the golf course when she met Miss Dee, who immediately handed her the copy of the play she had promised to give her the previous night, plus a second copy she had managed to secure for Dr Watson.

  “How is Miss O’Hara’s health this morning?” enquired the Countess after pocketing the two plays and thanking her friend most sincerely.

  “She is still in her bed. She claims to have a frightful headache but I suspect it may be something else.”

  “Morning sickness?”

  Miss Dee smiled knowingly. “Oh, it is lovely to be able to talk to someone who does not dissemble. Yes, she is with child. We probably won’t see her until rehearsal time. That is the other reason I came to see you. I offered to pass on the message that there will be a rehearsal this evening. Arrive at 5 o’clock and make sure you have something to eat first and try to study your lines this afternoon. Miss O’Hara is short-tempered with anyone who fluffs their entrance. A buffet supper will be served afterwards so it will be another late night. Mr Bancoe is grumbling into his beard and Mr Larssensen is gnashing his fangs because the tournament restarts tomorrow and they will be the first to tee-off.”

  “I feel guilty that I have dragged you away from your game. I know how important the tournament is to you and you must be eager to try out your new clubs. I apologise for making you come all this way.”

  “No need to apologise. I am younger than the two men and I am quite fit. This walk is nothing compared to the miles I covered on the veldt. This afternoon I shall play eighteen holes and still have energy to spare for rehearsals.”

  “I’ll walk back with you as far as the abbey ruin if you like. I’d like the chance to explore it at my leisure. By the way, do you happen to have a map of the wider area?”

  “A map? No. But you cannot possibly get lost. There are only four main roads. The north road leads to Edinburgh, the south to Duns, west to Peebles and east will take you to Berwick-on-Tweed. The smaller roads circle round but eventually all lead back to Loch Maw. If you are thinking of doing some rambling I wouldn’t mind joining you but I cannot set off until after the tournament. Oh, there are my two main rivals.” Miss Dee halted and pointed in a nor-easterly direction. “Can you see the four figures in the hollow? Mr Bancoe has just teed off from the tenth and his partner and the two caddies are waiting by the cluster of trees. Let’s walk briskly so that they don’t catch up to us.”

  Arm in arm, they began weaving through a spinney of silver birches when the Countess recalled the death of Peter Lancaster. “Is this where the Australian player died?”

  Miss Dee stopped abruptly and dropped her arm, there was something chilling in her sideways glance. “Yes, how did you know?”

  “I read it in the newspaper. A tree branch fell on him – is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. It was such bad luck. He was a player who had a lot of potential.”

  “The tournament was halted after that, I believe?”

  “Yes, some detectives arrived from Scotland Yard and wanted to know where everyone was at the time and that sort of thing. But it was just the hand of Fate. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time - an unfortunate accident, nothing more. It could have been any one of us.”

  “Indeed.” The Countess sensed now was not the time to pursue the circumstances of the other two deaths. There had been something repellent in the pale blue orbs. “It doesn’t bear thinking about,” she muttered, walking ahead.

  The romantic ruins of the abbey came into view as soon as they emerged from the spinney, and so did a lively Gordon setter. The dog came bounding around a corner where some gothic tracery that had once been a church window and had miraculously managed to withstand the ravages of several hundred Scottish winters was still intact. The dog sprinted toward them and it appeared to be a very friendly animal, not aggressive toward strangers, and beautifully cared for. Its glossy black and tan coat gleamed as it caught the cold rays of mid-morning.

  “This is Thane,” said Miss Dee, giving the dog a vigorous pat. “He belongs to Hamish Ross. If Thane is here it means Hamish will be nearby. I will leave you to explore the abbey on your own. Make sure you climb the stones up to what is left of the bell tower. There is a little parapet at the top. It offers a superb view over the loch and the golf course. See you later tonight.”

  The Countess watched Miss Dee take a shortcut across an ancient graveyard. She clearly knew t
he area well enough to stray from the given path. The young woman covered about a hundred yards then turned back to wave before disappearing behind a mass of fallen stones.

  The bell tower wasn’t difficult to locate since the stack of stones that formed some makeshift steps also formed the tallest part of the abbey ruins. Thane followed her but when she began to clamber up the massive blocks he began to bark. She tried to coax him up but he began to whimper.

  “Scaredy cat!” she teased when he ran off.

  From the top of the parapet she began to soak up the glorious panorama of Loch Maw and the Marmion Hydro Hotel on the opposite bank when she spotted two people half-hidden in the shelter of a ruined arch, locked in an ardent embrace. Quickly she ducked down so they didn’t think she was spying on them. She assumed it might be Miss O’Hara and Mr Larssensen, but then she remembered the dog. The man had to be Hamish Ross. But who was the woman?

  Slowly, she began to clamber back down the steps when the man called out angrily.

  “Hey! What are you doing up there?”

  His voice shattered the spiritual silence of the place, setting off an explosion of blackbirds who took to the sky in such numbers they momentarily darkened it. Birds circled around her in frenzied flight and she almost lost her balance.

  “Don’t move! Stay still!”

  Sprinting across the overgrown cloister, thick with weeds and thistles, hurdling blocks of fallen masonry, he clambered up the masonry before she could complete her descent. She thought he might be about to rebuke her vis-à-vis but he held out his hand as he braced his legs, balancing one foot on each of two separate stone blocks that teetered unsteadily.

  “There’s nowt supporting this ledge! Take my hand!”

  Thane, sensing danger, began barking ferociously.

  “Take my hand!” her rescuer repeated urgently. “And don’t make any sudden moves!”

  She placed her hand in his and gradually he eased her down one block at a time, carefully testing each stone with his own weight before guiding her onto it, manoeuvring himself backwards the whole time.