The Lammas Curse

by Anna Lord

  “What would be his motive? Why kill Mr Brown? The Rajah is not participating in the tournament. The Rajah and his shadow-cat have nothing to gain from Mr Brown’s death.”

  “Hmm,” he murmured, looking vexed, “damned motive!” The carriage gave a jolt and so did his brain. It jolted itself out of the abstract and back to the corporeal. “I just remembered something. I forgot to tell you the reason I was eager to return with you to Graymalkin.”

  “I thought perhaps you were desperate to learn your lines.”

  “No, no, I invited Lady Moira and Miss Lambert to dinner. It was a clever counter-strategy on my part to avoid dining at Mawgate Lodge.”

  She smiled at his choice of phrase – men were such fascinating creatures. They could make a simple dinner invitation sound like a battle manoeuvre. “A counter-strategy?”

  “Lady Moira invited us to dinner, to be followed by a spirit-reading involving that ridiculous parlour game called Ouija, but I decided the event would be less open to chicanery if it was to be held at Graymalkin. I hope Mrs Ross has something suitable in the way of provisions.”

  “I’m sure the redoubtable Mrs Ross will procure an excellent dinner by sleight of hand. If worse comes to worst she can conjure up some of that delicious kedgeree we had for breakfast using her magic cauldron.”

  He rolled his eyes at her choice of phrase. “Did you glean anything useful today from Miss Dee?”

  “I learned to follow through when I am teeing off. Oh, and this may make you change your snobbish mind about your namesake as a prospective suitor for Miss Lambert. He is half-brother to his lordship. Mrs Ross was the previous Lord Cruddock’s inamorata.”

  “I do not hold illegitimate off-spring to account for the sins of their fathers. I was merely looking out for the girl’s best interests. However, that information does put him in a better frame, not that his parentage turns out to be aristocratic, but that his parentage turns out not to be a dark mystery. I simply prefer there to be no dark cloud hanging over him.”

  “Unfortunately, having been born on the wrong side of the blanket, he cannot inherit any part of the estate.”

  “Be that as it may, and I am not saying it because he is my namesake, he is a fine young man. I saw him in action today out by Maw Bridge and he did not appear to be carrying a chip on his shoulder from being usurped by Carter Dee for the part of Macbeth, rather he appears to be the sort of chap who has a cool head on his shoulders and genuinely cares for the land and rivers in his charge.”

  “If you repeat that to Miss Lambert tonight I think you will win her undying adoration. When you are doddery and bed-ridden it will be Miss Lambert who will sit by your bedside and spoon-feed you chicken broth.”

  He gave a hearty chuckle at the touching avuncular scene as he glanced out of the window and spotted the woodchopper and the pair of gardeners hurrying back to the hotel ahead of the encroaching storm. He banged on the roof of the carriage with his cane for Fedir to stop, and leapt out to intercept the men before they disappeared down a steep-sided gully.

  “Hey there! Mr Dawes, I forgot to ask you something!”

  A flurry of crows took to the sky when he yelled out, the last leaves clinging to the pendulous branches trembled and a palpable shiver spread outward through the wood.

  “What colour tartan was it that the poacher was wearing?”

  “It weren’t the usual Black Watch that would have blended with the shadows of the wood, that’s for sure.”

  “Black Watch – that’s black and green?”

  The woodchopper nodded. “His tartan were grey and purple.”

  As Dr Watson returned to the carriage a mizzle of grey rain began to fall, akin to a fine mist. They soon entered Jackdaw Wood and neither spoke. It wasn’t until they were out of the wood that the Countess turned to her sleuthing companion.

  “Tonight should prove very interesting, mon ami.”

  “Oh spare me! Don’t tell me you are a devotee of Ouija!”

  “Pas du tout! I meant we will be able to observe Lady Moira and Mrs Ross together under the same roof.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The wife and the mistress.”

  He slapped the side of his head. “Heaven forbid! I hope I have not made a terrible faux pas.”

  “You didn’t know the situation when you pressed the counter-invitation,” she reminded. “Did Lady Moira acquiesce with good grace?”

  “I think so. I’m not sure. She smiled oddly and warned me that Graymalkin has a long history.”

  “What do you think she meant by that?”

  “I dismissed it as the usual piffle about the spirit world.”

  “Let’s hope you are right,” said the Countess, glancing out of the window at the forbidding grey fortress rising out of the indomitable grey rock.

  Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna were seated either side of a crackling fire in the barrel-vaulted sitting room, enjoying a cigarette as they waited for their two guests to arrive. The storm that had threatened all day did not materialize but the melancholy grey rain continued without surcease.

  Antiques abounded but not the elegant pieces that filled Cruddock Castle, these were solid, strong and masculine - they bore their scars proudly as they anchored themselves to the oak floorboards, stood tall against the masonry walls, and held their own beside the heavy Mortlake tapestries. An old gate-leg table in the centre of the room had been set for dinner. The Ouija tiles could be set up on the same table following their meal.

  Dr Watson was not a man who appeared at his best in a drawing room. It was not his natural milieu. He always looked stiff and ill at ease in a social setting, especially when the women outnumbered the men. He tried to compensate for his unease by being a stickler for the rules of etiquette but his discomfit and lack of composure only became more obvious the harder he tried to adhere to social expectation. He was a military man who preferred the company of men and that was that.

  But tonight he played host with great aplomb and led the conversation with admirable skill. The topics that were not discussed were more telling than the ones that were. He deftly avoided the forthcoming nuptials, the golf tournament, the four deaths, the Scottish play and the dismal weather. Throughout dinner he kept the ladies enthralled with tales of his adventures with the inimitable Sherlock Holmes, and if the women suspected he may have exaggerated his contribution a touch they did not say so.

  Xenia cleared the table and Miss Lambert set up the ivory alphabet tiles in a randomly arranged circle, placing an upturned glass in the centre. They returned to their seats and placed their index fingers on the glass.

  “Someone needs to ask a question,” directed Lady Moira.

  Dr Watson reminded himself not to roll his eyes.

  “I will ask a question,” volunteered the Countess. “Will I ever marry again?”

  The glass slid slowly to ‘yes’. As well as letters of the alphabet there were a few tiles with frequently used words on them.

  Miss Lambert gave a joyous little clap of hands.

  “Do not remove your finger, Miss Lambert,” reprimanded the dowager as she steered the glass back to the centre. “It breaks the connection to the spirit world. You must ask the next question to re-open the portal.”

  Miss Lambert looked flustered as she replaced her finger. “I’m sorry, Lady Moira. Oh, dear, I cannot think of anything to ask.”

  “Don’t be so foolish,” rasped the dowager. “Of course you can!”

  Miss Lambert blushed and blurted, “Will I marry my one true love?”

  The glass seemed to go one way, stop, and then go the other way. Miss Lambert bit her lip. Dr Watson decided to give the spirit world some help. He exerted considerable pressure on the glass and steered it to where he wanted it to go. The relief on Miss Lambert’s face was worth the deceit.

  “Your turn to ask a question, Dr Watson,” said the dowager, eyeing him warily.

  It had only been a few minutes but he was already bored with the ludicrous par
lour game and feeling bored often went hand in hand with feeling contrary and feeling contrary usually went cheek by jowl with being daring, or rather, reckless and therefore careless of consequences.

  “Who killed Mr Brown?”

  The glass moved with painstaking slowness around the circle and finally stopped at the letter ‘C’. The doctor was so stunned he lifted his finger without thinking.

  “Must I say it again?” rebuked the dowager. “Do not remove your finger. Now you will have to ask another question to restore the link and re-open the portal.”

  He felt even more reckless and daring. “Will there be another murder?”

  As well as letters of the alphabet and common words there were some Roman numerals among the tiles – I, X, L, C, M. These were underscored to distinguish them from letters. The glass moved to an underscored ‘C’.

  The doctor protested that ‘100’ was ridiculous, refraining from adding that the game was stupid and he was clearly mad for participating.

  Lady Moira took umbrage. “The Ouija is never wrong. If it fails to make sense it is because you are not yet ready to understand. It is my turn to ask a question now: Who is the father of Miss O’Hara’s baby?”

  The glass began sliding toward ‘L’ when Dr Watson decided to fight it but it was akin to battling an invisible force. Someone was exerting considerable pressure. The glass was going back and forth. The idea came like a flash. Abruptly, he withdrew his finger, applying pressure to the rim of the glass as he did so. It did the trick. The glass flipped, tumbled to the floor and rolled under the table.

  Lady Moira was furious. She banged her fist on the table and the ivory tiles juddered in all directions. Miss Lambert quickly scrambled to retrieve the ones that had fallen. Prudently, the Countess decided to join her. Dr Watson concluded that now was a good time to serve coffee. He went to find Xenia but as he threw open the door leading to the hall he found Mrs Ross on her knees listening at the keyhole.

  “Some coffee,” he said brusquely, “if you will, Mrs Ross,” and briskly closed the door.

  It was several minutes before order was restored. They settled into comfortable old armchairs by the fireplace just as Mrs Ross entered with the coffee tray. It was the first time she had come into contact with the two guests. It had been the Countess’s idea to have Xenia serve the dinner on the pretext that Mrs Ross would have enough to do in the kitchen. In truth it was to avoid any awkwardness during the meal.

  “Good evening, Mrs Ross,” said Lady Moira stiffly.

  “Good evening, your ladyship.”

  “You appear to be keeping well?”

  “Thank you, your ladyship.”

  “Are you still basket-weaving?”

  “Yes, your ladyship. Hamish takes my baskets to the market in Duns and old Mrs Greene sells them for me.”

  “I have some 5 inch bodkins that I no longer use since my eyesight has started to fade. You may be able to make use of them. Fetch your embroidery bag Miss Lambert. I placed four bodkins into your bag prior to our departure. Keep one for yourself and Mrs Ross can have the other three.”

  Miss Lambert delved into her bag and brought out three bodkins with wooden handles and sharp-pointed metallic ends.

  “Those are the biggest bodkins I have ever seen,” observed Dr Watson. “They look more like chisels or awls than domestic tools.”

  “They look more like lethal weapons,” quipped the Countess as she poured the coffee and offered the first cup to the grande-dame.

  “Bodkins come in all sizes,” responded the dowager. “They make useful tools. I keep one in the pocket of my cloak - handy at this time of year for gathering mushrooms and for all sorts of unforeseen eventualities outdoors.”

  Mrs Ross thanked Lady Moira and retreated back to the kitchen.

  Dr Watson was still feeling reckless and daring. “This afternoon, Lady Moira, you said something about Graymalkin having a long history – something to do with witchcraft. I was wondering if you might elaborate.”

  “Such a dark chapter from Scottish history,” the old lady said sadly, accepting a slice of Dundee cake. “Are you sure you wish to hear it with the young ladies present?”

  “Oh, I’m sure Miss Lambert and I are much tougher than we look!” joked the Countess, essaying a playful wink at her prim counterpart.

  “Very well,” conceded Lady Moira. “Scotland had its own Witchfinder General, an ambitious man by the name of Blair Colquon. The first lady to suffer at his hands was the widow who owned Graymalkin – Jennifer Gray. You have probably seen the dungeon and the instruments of torture. Blair Colquon made good use of them. The Widow Gray was stripped and shaved – a torture in itself for any woman – and then pricked her all over with a bodkin to prove witch-hood. Each time she fainted, she was revived with freezing cold water. The terrible pain and intense cold would have been enough to kill anyone but Widow Gray was hardy. Blair Colquon forced her to wear a scold’s bridle while he inflicted ever more disfiguring punishments until she succumbed. Her body was left in Jackdaw Wood for the wolves to devour.”

  The old lady sighed heavily before continuing. “The last witch of the Borders came from these parts too. Her name was Alice Mawson. Mercifully, she was not tortured or left to the mercy of wolves or burnt at the stake. Times had moved on. She was exiled and her wealth and property was confiscated.”

  “Did you discover all this when you went to check the archives in Edinburgh?” asked Miss Lambert, sounding impressed.

  “Yes,” said Lady Moira, smiling indulgently, the way an adult might smile at a precocious child who has just asked an embarrassing question. “Well, Miss Lambert, I think it might be time to bid our hosts a bonnie good night and to thank them for their hospitality.”

  Miss Lambert picked up on the cue and after eliciting charming courtesies went to fetch their fur cloaks, fur gloves and her embroidery bag in which could be found all manner of useful treasure.

  “Are you sure the roads will be safe?” posed the Countess, listening to the wind howling around the ramparts. “Perhaps it would be safer for you to stay the night and set off after breakfast. Mrs Ross can -”

  “Tosh! The roads will be perfectly safe,” cut off Lady Moira. “I have used them a thousand times in all weathers. The rain has held off and that drizzle is a mere damp squib. We Scots are a hardy race. If we were afraid of a bit of bad weather we would never step outside!”

  “I think the Countess may be right,” argued Dr Watson, thinking of this wife’s niece travelling through Jackdaw Wood at night with wolves on the prowl. If anything happened he would never forgive himself – he should never have invited them for dinner, he could see that now. He hadn’t considered the dangers inherent in the return trip home. “The road through Jackdaw Wood is miry at the best of times and the wind may have brought down another tree.”

  The Countess was nodding her head in agreement. “Our coachman will not travel through Jackdaw Wood after dark. He thinks - ”

  “Spare me!” disdained the old lady. “He thinks it is full of witches! Superstitious tosh and nonsense! I cannot lecture him on his ignorance but you must learn to distinguish between historical fact and childish fairy tale, Countess Volodymyrovna! I bid you good night!”

  12

  Jackdaw Wood

  Dr Watson hauled his trusty golf clubs into the landau, smiling as nervously as a boy going off to boarding school for the first time. The Countess wished him luck with his caddying as she waved him off then quickly donned her warm winter Redingote and set off for the Marmion Hydro Hotel on foot. She wanted to speak to young Robbie Fyfe and she wanted to explore Jackdaw Wood along the way, something she knew her companion in crime would discourage.

  The drizzle from the day before had disappeared but a grey haze hung over the land. It was not as thick as London fog, more like a murky grey veil, just enough to confound the senses and bleary the air.

  Jackdaw Wood was a queer place - a remnant from a time when Caledon fyrr forests covered most of S
cotland. A time of wolf and lynx and wild boar; snow and ice; Picts and Celts. It was a lone survivor in a new landscape treed with slender white beauties called birch and alder, a forgotten place of towering brown trunks that resembled gargantuan legs, like mythic titans minus torsos. Every scarred and wind-whipped trunk was more than a century old, gangrenous with lichen and moss. But what was queer was that there were no jackdaws.

  Once the Countess entered the wood it didn’t take long to realize that every moss-mottled trunk looked like another and the one after that and so on. It didn’t take long to lose her bearings. There were no straight paths and too many tracks that curved around clumps of heather and snaked through brittle fronds of bronzy bracken that provided perfect camouflage for foraging deer that sometimes lifted their heads and gave her a fright. The lofty branches dripped with damp and the spongy ground, thick with leaves and centuries of rotting vegetation, made a squelching sound underfoot. Every now and then the greyness was arrested by the startling flash of something vivid as a shaft of sunlight broke through the grey pall and spotlighted a bright red crossbill flitting through the topmost branches.

  She heard a rustling sound and looked back. Something darted behind the tree. But which tree? Deliberately, she turned away then spun back round. Something flashed. She knew it wasn’t a deer –wrong shape - or a caipercaillzie – wrong size. Alert to every little sound, she walked on warily, her heartbeat echoing in her ears, but the track wound back on itself and she soon ended up back where she started. The grey veil blurred the light. The trees blocked the sun. She had no idea of the time. She walked on for a bit and once again saw something dart behind the trees – something human.

  She turned her back then re-turned sharply and almost died from relief when it turned out to be the young lad, Robbie Fyfe.

  He looked equally relieved. “I thought,” he stammered, still getting over the shock, “I thought you might be Mother MacBee. I couldna see your face under the hood and I hid behind a tree. But every time I moved, you seemed to be there. Are you a witch too?”