by Anna Lord
“Will you be staying to lunch, Dr Watson?”
He was mindful that things were tight for the widow and politely declined, citing the up-coming play as an excuse. She had been invited to be part of the audience, along with Mrs Ross, and was looking forward to the evening. He got out some cachets for settling nerves and aiding sleep, explained the correct dosage, then carefully broached the subject of the murder.
“How many servants do you have working here?”
“I have had to let most of the staff go in the last week or two. There are five men who do outside and three girls who do inside. Ellie does the laundry and the ironing. Sally, the parlourmaid does all the upstairs and downstairs rooms and helps to serve the meals. Becky, the scullery maid, helps with the kitchen chores. I do all the baking and cooking myself now. I don’t know what I would do if I had more than two guests as I do at present – oh!” she stopped suddenly and realised what she’d just said. She no longer had two guests, just the one. The thought seemed to startle her.
“Could one of the female servants have observed Mr Brown in the courtyard yesterday whilst carrying out their chores?”
She picked up a pewter candlestick and began to give it a mechanical burnish with her apron. “On any other day it is possible, but yesterday because of the rehearsals and supper at the castle I knew we would have nowt for dinner, so I gave the three girls the afternoon off. It was their first free half day since the golf tournament commenced more than a month ago. The three of them went into Duns together where they all have family.”
How convenient – thought the doctor. Did the man meeting Mr Brown know the female servants would be having the afternoon off?
“Do any of the girls have a sweetheart?”
“I suppose there is a point to your question, Dr Watson, so I will answer you straight. I do not encourage it and they are far too young. Sally is the eldest at sixteen, Ellie is fifteen and Becky has just gone thirteen.”
“Irrespective of age, Mrs Ardkinglas, have you ever seen a man hanging about the place, perhaps in Crow Wood?”
“Oh, so you have heard the natter about the poacher. As far as I know Ned is the only one who has spied him. Ned is not prone to making up stories. If he says he saw someone in Crow Wood I would believe him.”
Doctor Watson’s voiced softened. “Please sit down a moment, Mrs Ardkinglas. I am going to ask you about your husband’s investment in the tea-shipping trade. Please don’t feel distressed,” he pre-empted noting how she had been valiantly struggling to keep at bay the tears that were close to the surface.
“What can that foolish scheme have to do with anything? That was more than ten years ago.”
The doctor decided to be nothing less than honest. “I do not know if it has anything to do with anything at present. All I know is that someone would like the golf tournament to be cancelled, perhaps even bankrupt Lord Cruddock. Very little makes sense at this stage so I must follow all leads no matter how remote they seem.” He waited until she heaved a sigh and relaxed her shoulders. “I understand your husband’s family lost a considerable amount of money in the failed shipping venture?”
She nodded grimly. “They only just managed to hang onto the family home, but most of the farmland was sold off along with the family silver and such like.”
“And your sister, Mrs Ross, lost her life savings?”
Again she nodded. “When my sister became the housekeeper at Graymalkin she was paid a decent income and put aside every penny to buy Hamish a commission in one of the private regiments, but just before Hamish was due to set off, she lost the lot.”
“Hamish became a ghillie instead?”
“His lordship took pity for what had happened and employed Hamish on his estate.”
“Lord Cruddock did not lose any money in the scheme, is that right?”
Her dark eyes flashed like lightning against a metallic sky and her voice was bitter and constrained. “That is right.”
“He sold his share to someone at the last moment?”
She pursed her lips and nodded without speaking.
“Do you know who that someone was?”
“It was his best friend, Mr Crawford Dee.”
The doctor was unable to hide his surprise. “The father of Catherine and Carter Dee?”
“Yes, that is what set Mr Dee on the path to bankruptcy. He tried to recover his losses but it was one desperate scheme after another, as is the way with luck – good luck invites good fortune and bad luck breeds more of the same. He eventually lost everything and shot himself. Lord Cruddock travelled to South Africa to collect the twins and brought them back here to Cruddock Castle, he being their god-father. That was about five years ago.”
“Do you think they hold a grudge against his lordship?”
She thought for a moment and shook her head. “I cannot say. If they did, I think it is forgotten now. It was the twins who persuaded their god-father to build the golf course. They said it was the future, the way of things to come, and I daresay if one of them wins the tournament it will all work out for the best and the past will be dead and buried.”
It seemed a situation that could point either of two ways: Either the twins hated their god-father and held him responsible for the death of their father or they saw him as their mentor and saviour. Which was it?
The doctor thanked Mrs Ardkinglas and asked where he might be able to find the woodchopper.
“Ned will be working in Crow Wood, out by Maw Bridge, where an ancient yew has come down in high winds and fallen across the river. It is on the road to Mawgate Lodge. You cannot miss it. He has the two gardeners with him since it is a big job. Hamish is there too because there is a colony of otters nearby and he wants to check that the riverbank has not been damaged.”
Crow Wood was made up of birch and alder, the same lovely pendulous trees that dotted the golf course. The workmen were having an early lunch, sitting by the riverbank, when Dr Watson arrived. Thane bounded forward to greet him before running off in search of minks which colonised the riparian idyll, though it was not the time for mink hunting; that had to wait for summer when hunters would come with packs of curly-coated mink hounds.
Dr Watson checked the list of names to remind himself of the names of the two gardeners, and noticed that the paper Mr MacDuff had given him was pale green, the same colour as that found in Mr Brown’s pocket. It was hardly significant and there could be any number of feasible explanations. He greeted the men and exchanged a few words about the work they were doing before asking Ned if he could speak to him in private. The men all guessed what it was about and left them to it. Hamish said goodbye and set off across the bridge. He promised to return with some labourers from the estate and a team of oxen. If the tree was not shifted before the next heavy rain it would divert the river and cause it to inundate the road either side of the bridge.
“What can you tell me about the poacher?” the doctor asked Ned when they had walked a dozen yards to a small clearing where the sun broke through the pendulous branches and lit up the golden hues in the leaf litter.
“Not much to tell. I only saw him the once, by that I mean I saw him two times but both times on the same day.”
“Describe him?”
“I saw him from a distance mind you, not close up, but I’d say he was tallish. He was moving furtive-like, looking around to make sure he weren’t spotted. That’s how I knew he weren’t out mushrooming. A lot of the locals come this way looking for mushrooms and his lordship turns a blind eye to it though Crow Wood is still part of the Cruddock estate. The mushroomers won’t go into Jackdaw Wood though there be more mushrooms there because of talk about witches and such like.”
“Did you see his hair?”
“He was dark-haired and he had a thick dark beard.”
“Are you sure?”
“It matched his face.”
“His face?”
“He was darkish.”
“How could you tell that from a distance? Mig
ht it have been the shadows of the trees?”
Ned shook his head emphatically. “He turned his head sudden-like and the sunlight caught him full on the face the way it is doing to those leaves. Just as you can see the colours of the leaves in the light so I could see the colour of his skin. He was a darkie.”
“How was he dressed?”
“He had a tartan cloak and a tartan scarf bundled around his neck and shoulders. It weren’t no local tartan, nor any tartan I have seen before. That’s what made me think he’s not from round the Borders and nor could he be a poor tramp neither with such fine wools.”
“Was he carrying a walking stick or perhaps some golf clubs?”
Ned threw back his head and laughed. “What would a poacher want with golf clubs!”
The doctor had been thinking about the injury to the back of the neck but decided not to pursue it. “What time did you see him – be as precise as possible?”
“That’s easy. The sun was mid-heaven. I found a nice log out of the wind and was just sitting down to my bread and butter when I spotted him going south along the western edge of Crow Wood. I thought to myself. I wonder where this cove is heading? And then blow me down, if I don’t spot him again an hour or so later taking the low path by the loch, going north this time. He had no bundle and no brace and no golf clubs neither! So I figured he might be getting the lay of the land, checking for nests and lairs and dens and where best to set his traps.”
“Thank you, Mr Dawes, you have been very helpful. I bid you a good day.”
The two men parted and as Dr Watson took the shortest path back to his carriage he spotted Lady Moira and Miss Lambert standing on Maw Bridge. They had heard about the fallen yew and had decided to check the damage to the riverbank for themselves.
Lady Moira was quick to let him know she would be conducting a spirit meeting in the evening and invited him (along with the Countess) to dinner, prior to communicating with the spirit world. It would be Ouija tonight and a small gathering – just the four of them. Ouija tiles did not lend themselves to large numbers, she explained. Too many fingers tended to cloud the message from the otherworld, toing and froing the glass, manipulating the result.
Any other time, any other place, the doctor would have swiftly declined, but the manipulation of the result was exactly what was uppermost in his mind when he counter-invited Lady Moira and Miss Lambert to dinner at Graymalkin instead.
“Bring your Ouija tiles with you,” he said, employing a genial tone, but Lady Moira saw through his ploy to play mine host.
“Oh, you are such an unbeliever, Dr Watson! Very well! To prove to you that the spirits are genuine and that my table and alphabet tiles have not been tricked-up, we will hold the spirit-meeting at Graymalkin.” She turned to go then turned back, smiling strangely. Sunlight cast fitful shadows across her pale as death face. “You may live to regret your invitation. Graymalkin has a history of demonology and witchcraft. It is full of tortured souls, who, once they have awakened from their troubled slumber, may unleash all manner of dark deeds. Be warned.”
11
Ouija Game
Countess Volodymyrovna took to golf like a duck to water. While Dr Watson was inspecting the body of Mr Brown the Countess was enjoying a game of golf with Miss Dee. Her friend was an excellent instructress and the incident concerning the abbey ruins was put firmly out of the Countess’s mind. They had decided to play the first six holes and then skip across to the last three. Fedir was doing the caddying for both ladies. They had just moved across to the sixteenth hole when the Countess asked the question that had been weighing heavily on her mind since the previous evening.
“Last night I noticed a portrait of the previous Lord Cruddock in the dining room. It struck me as interesting because we had been discussing the legitimacy of Mr Hamish Ross. I noticed the man in the portrait had red hair and I wondered…”
Miss Dee finished the sentence for her, as good friends often do. “You wondered if he could have fathered Hamish Ross. Yes he did,” she confirmed as she selected a club and whacked the ball fifty yards through the air and watched it bounce another fifty yards onto the green. “Mrs Ross was the old lord’s lover before and after his marriage to Lady Moira.”
“Does Lady Moira know this?”
“Oh, yes, it is common knowledge, though no one talks of it.”
It was the Countess’s turn to tee off. She would need at least three shots to reach the green. “So Hamish Ross knows it too?”
“Certainly. Bend your knees a bit more. That’s better.”
“He and Lord Cruddock are half-brothers?”
“Yes, but Hamish cannot inherit and he knows that too. Make sure you follow through with the club when you swing. Don’t pull up short. Have another shot off the tee.”
“Oh, yes, I am familiar with royal prerogative and titles and inheritance,” said the Countess, recalling the case of the Baskervilles. “Wouldn’t that be cheating?”
“Inherited titles are more varied in Scotland,” explained Miss Dee. “It can hardly be called cheating if it is just a practise game. Have another go and make sure to follow through.”
This time the ball sailed through the air then bounced and rolled an extra twenty yards. The Countess felt elated as she strode down the fairway and noted for the first time the darkening sky. Storm clouds were rolling in and banking up.
“How are titles varied?” she asked.
“Fore!”
Suddenly a golf ball whistled past, missing them by inches. They turned sharply to see who had hit it. It was the Rajah of Govinda. He had set off to play all eighteen holes but because the Countess needed to play three or four shots to every one played by Miss Dee the Rajah had caught up to them. They played the final two holes together under an increasingly threatening sky.
Caddying for the Rajah was his factotum, Mr Chandrapur, a strange man with small, dark, watchful eyes that reminded the Countess of a cat. He moved like a cat too, with measured tread and silent footfalls. He also had the habits of a cat – slinking in the shadows, keeping to the edge, never intruding. A snap of royal bejewelled fingers was all it took for Mr Chandrapur to appear out of the woodwork. He appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye, giving the impression he could pass through walls like a ghost, vanish into thin air, only to materialize someplace else.
Dr Watson was waiting for the Countess in the golf pavilion. It was formerly a glass house for growing fruit and vegetables and since it was positioned midway between the first and last fairway it had been converted for use as a storeroom for golfing paraphernalia. It was never kept locked. Golf bags were lined up along one wall, tooled leather name tags hung from hooks above each bag. His lordship owned six sets of clubs. Even Hamish Ross had a set of clubs, though they were battered and looked second hand. The doctor was polishing his clubs as he waited, eager to whisk the Countess back to Graymalkin before she agreed to lunch with her new best friend; mindful also that he needed to inform Mrs Ross as soon as possible that there would be two extra places at dinner. Through the glass roof he could see storm clouds banking ominously and it did not bode well for the re-commencement of the tournament the next day.
“Who was that man with the Rajah?” he put to the Countess as soon as they were in the carriage rumbling south.
“That is Mr Chandrapur, his factotum?”
“Now there’s a word! I have heard it a hundred times, but tell me, what exactly does a factotum do?”
“Well, I think it is one of those words that means different things to different people. In this case, it means a valet-cum-caddy-cum-equerry-cum-confidential secretary-cum-slave. He is never far from the Rajah’s side.”
“Never far from his side? I have never even seen him!”
“You mean to say you did not notice him in the drawing room when we first arrived? He was standing in the alcove between the two blackamoor candelabras.”
“I was concentrating on names and faces,” he responded defensively. “My eyes we
re not wandering all over the room. Besides, amongst that fabulous clutter one could hardly be expected to notice a servant in the background. No one notices a museum guard in a museum, do they?”
“Mmm, you were concentrating rather hard on Miss O’Hara too,” she teased. “Mr Chandrapur was also in the library during the séance.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certainement, mon ami! He slipped in half way through the performance. You probably had your back to the door and did not notice. The candle spluttered from the draught and there was a momentary chill.”
“Oh, yes, I remember a brief chill.” He felt an involuntary shiver.
“He reminds me of a cat – the way he creeps about on quiet cat-feet. Now, tell me what happened at the Marmion Hydro Hotel today.”
He recounted all that had transpired, finishing with the fact that the father of Catherine and Carter Dee had purchased his lordship’s share of the tea-trade swindle with tragic consequences.
“I do not think Catherine and Carter Dee harbour any malice toward their god-father. Carter has turned into quite the thespian and Catherine is very likely to win the tournament and make a name for herself in the world of golf. Callous as it may sound, not every death is a soul-destroying tragedy. The death of their father could be counted sad but ultimately fortuitous.”
He nodded without replying, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
“Are you thinking about the poacher?” she asked after a few minutes of silence.
“Yes,” he admitted, “how did you know?”
“We are passing through Crow Wood and your eyes suddenly got that far-away look you get when you are thinking about something abstract – and it is the identity of the poacher that offers us our first real clue as to who could be behind the deaths. You are thinking that it might be the paterfamilias, Mr Chandrapur.”
He nodded with greater animation. “Yes, he is dark-skinned and he could easily have borrowed a tartan cloak and scarf from the costume room to disguise himself.”
