by Anna Lord
“And the cat’s paw in the sack,” she suddenly remembered. “It was black. It must have been sliced off the drowned moggy.”
“Yes!” he agreed with a shudder. “And she must have fished it out of the water later because Mycroft did not describe the black cat as three-legged and he would not have failed to pass on such a detail.”
“Do you realize what that means?” she put to him, suppressing a cold shiver. “She seems to be everywhere and nowhere, lurking about, almost invisible. She might have witnessed all of the murders. She might even know who the murderer is.”
He began shaking his head. “I think she committed the murders herself! Her gruesome treasures might be gory keepsakes. I think she takes a memento mori to remind her of each killing. If time is of the essence or she is about to be disturbed she flees and returns to the corpse afterwards.”
“Some of the keepsakes are not from corpses,” she reminded.
“Not yet!”
“Blond hair from a Viking nob, that must be Mr Larssensen and he is still alive.”
“There is no saying she would not take a keepsake before the deed. If she is mad there does not have to be any order or method to the killing spree and the grisly collection.” He ran his eyes over the sheet of paper once more. “Spittle from an old Salt – I’d wager that refers to Mr Bancoe. He looks like an ancient mariner. The fingernail from a Darkie’s claw - that must be either the Rajah or his factotum. They are not yet dead but there is no saying they might not be next. I don’t want you to go into Jackdaw Wood on your own,” he finished with conviction. “In fact, don’t go with anyone at all. Not Mrs Ross and not even Hamish Ross. It is too dangerous. We do not know who we can trust.”
“You need to keep your wits about you too,” she warned. “Three of the deaths occurred on the golf course.”
“I am more worried for your sake. Out here all alone.”
“Not quite alone.”
“You know what I mean.”
“In that case, I might tag along tomorrow as an interested observer. I can provide moral support to Miss Dee.”
He slapped the side of his head. “Oh! I just remembered! Your little rhyme put it from my mind completely. The Rajah has invited you to accompany him to Edinburgh tomorrow. He is leaving immediately after breakfast and will stay overnight on his private sailing ship moored in the harbour. If you wish to accompany him you are to come with me in the morning to Cruddock Castle with your luggage.”
“Did he say why he was going to Edinburgh?”
“He said something about some telegrams he needed to send and some business transactions to take care of but my impression is that he is growing slightly bored with golfing in general and Scottish life in particular. If it weren’t for the Scottish play and the wedding I think he would have set sail by now.”
“I think I will accept his offer, not because I need to spend time in Edinburgh but because the Rajah might throw more light on what has happened.”
13
The Rajah of Govinda
“I have a secret,” confessed the Rajah after they had been travelling for about three hours and he had answered every question with a question of his own that could be summarized: “Why does a beautiful young woman need to dwell on such unpleasant happenstance?” So after three hours of frustration when he finally said “I have a secret” the Countess felt a spark of hope.
“Secret?” she smiled encouragingly.
“What do you know about the Lammas tiara?”
“Only what I read in the newspaper – that it is considered to be the jewel in the crown of Lammermoor. I have never seen it.”
“It is a coronet of diamonds. The largest diamond, the jewel in the crown, was mined in Govinda. The tiara once belonged to my family. It was stolen by Colonel Fotheringay during the Indian Mutiny and commandeered by his superior officer, Lord Cruddock. I am here to purchase the tiara and restore it to its rightful place.”
“I did not realize it was for sale.”
“It was not for sale, but I approached Lord Cruddock and put to him an offer that was difficult for him to refuse.”
“I see.”
“I watched him drop a considerable sum on the baccarat tables in London last year and noted how each time the magnitude of his bets was accompanied by an increase in his consumption of whiskey – a tell-tale sign that a man cannot afford his losses. The following day, when he had sobered up and the painful extent of his losses dawned on him, I invited him to dine and we came to an arrangement that suited us both. Saving face was paramount. I understood that from the outset. The golf tournament provided the perfect ruse. It was his suggestion that I come as a guest to Cruddock Castle to observe the tournament on the pretence of staging something similar back in India. I would naturally be invited to stay for the wedding, and afterwards, just as the happy bride and bridegroom embark on their honeymoon, I set sail with the tiara in my possession and return it to its original home.”
“I presume that without the sale of the tiara his lordship would be near to bankrupt?”
“Creditors have been circling for months. He has been keeping the wolves from the door with fairy tales.”
“Fairy tales?”
“That his mother is not long for this world.”
“Is that true?”
“Who knows?” he shrugged. “Perhaps she is more robust than she appears, most old women are, but the point is that she has an extraordinary collection of jewels that have belonged to the family for generations. Upon her demise the jewels will revert to the Cruddock estate. Presumably, his lordship will bestow them on his wife but he has let it be known in certain circles that he will use them to fend off the wolves. Of course, if he sells the tiara to me he does not need to wish his mother dead and can still bestow the jewels on his beautiful wife. He also gets the funds he needs sooner rather than later.”
“If Lord Cruddock is as skint as you say how is he financing the tournament?”
“I am financing the tournament.”
“Does anyone else know of this?”
He shook his head.
“Does anyone else know you are purchasing the tiara?”
He tapped his nose with his forefinger. “Discretion, remember? But it is more than just a matter of saving face. If anyone else got wind of it the castle door would soon be breeched and his lordship would be torn to pieces by the wolves, provided his mother did not get to him first.”
“She is aware of his gambling,” pointed out the Countess.
“But not the extent of his losses.”
“And his future wife?”
“She has other things to occupy her mind.”
“The baby,” she guessed.
He nodded. “The pregnancy does not fare well.”
“How do you know this?”
“The gossip of servants.”
“You listen to servants’ gossip?”
“Mr Chandrapur reports what he hears.”
She doubted that servants would gossip freely in front of a foreign factotum. “He is privy to the gossip below stairs?”
“He moves like a ghost – neither seen nor heard.”
“He is a handy servant to have,” she remarked blandly, thinking again how much the man reminded her of a cat.
“More than a servant - he is a brother, the offspring of my father’s fifth wife. Our family is large. I have twelve brothers and twenty-three sisters. Many have positions in my household. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. The same applies to family – but doubly so.”
“If the sale of the tiara is so hush-hush why are you sharing the news of it with me?”
He took her two hands in his and brought them to his lips. “I think you sensed from our first meeting that I had set my eye on you. When I spoke of taking a fourth wife I think you understood what I was hinting at. I am sharing the secret to prove that I take you into my confidence, that I wish to share my worldly riches with you, including the Lammas tiara, which I will bestow upon you for your
lifetime the day we are wed.”
“Is this a proposal?”
“Not yet,” he returned suavely, arching a dark brow playfully. “I am merely voicing my intention, honourable intention, I might add, and giving you time to think about the sort of future you might want for yourself and your future children.”
“You realize I am a widow.”
“I am aware of your circumstances and your position. That is another reason I am treading slowly. However, I must warn you…”
“Warn me?”
“I am accustomed to getting what I want. When I set my eye on something I never fail to obtain it, for instance, the Lammas tiara. I have waited many years to secure it. I am a patient man. I bide my time. I wait for the right moment. And when that moment arises I do not hesitate to obtain the object of my desire.”
Once again, he kissed her hand before relinquishing it.
“Think about my,” he paused circumspectly and his dark brows drew down into a thoughtful frown. “I won’t say ‘proposal’, that would be too formal, and the word ‘offer’ sounds too business-like, let me repeat, my honourable intention. India is not as backward as you might imagine. Have you ever visited my country?”
“Briefly,” she said. “My aunt and I were guests of the Maharajah of Jaipurana, and I have never considered India to be backward. Tell me about your other three wives.”
By midday they arrived at a coaching inn surrounded by a cluster of barns and stables set in a clearing where several roads intersected just outside the Cruddock estate. They had not taken the same road that initially brought the Countess to the Borders, but took a shortcut through farmland and forest, cutting north-east across Cruddock land. It sliced hours from the journey and helped to explain how Mrs Ardkinglas knew to expect them that first night for dinner even though the Countess and Dr Watson had set off from Edinburgh hours ahead of Lady Moira and her party.
While Fedir saw to the horses, and Mr Chandrapur and Xenia set up a picnic in a sheltered spot by a brook, the Countess stretched her legs. In a nearby field children were building a large bonfire and chanting:
Remember, remember, the fifth of November.
In a small barn an old woman was busy weaving baskets. At her feet was an old border collie, fur slightly matted. He gave a low menacing growl but did not move from his chosen spot.
“Good day to you,” greeted the Countess upon entering the barn. “Are your baskets for sale?”
“Yes, m’lady,” replied the old woman. “Them that’s on that table are ready for market.”
“How much for this willow basket?”
“Two shillings.”
“Do you sell bodkins?”
“Yes, m’lady. All sizes. Over on that far shelf.”
The Countess checked the lethal looking tools. “Do you have any five inch bodkins? I recall Lady Cruddock mentioning that she prefers the five inch.”
“Yes, m’lady. Tis a popular size for working the withy and it was Lady Cruddock which took the last of the five inch bodkins only the other day.”
“Oh, that’s right she bought four new ones.”
“No, m’lady. She bought five.”
The Countess thought the old woman might be confusing five inch with the number five. “Are you sure? I believe she bought four.”
“Four inch bodkins do just as good a job but she wanted only the five inch and took the lot of them.”
“I will take this three inch bodkin along with the willow basket. How much for the two?”
“Five shillings, m’lady.”
“Here are six shillings. Good day to you and your faithful old dog.”
Now, why would Lady Moira buy five of the five inch bodkins and give three of them to Mrs Ross, telling her she no longer needed them due to her failing eyesight. Was it a peace-offering? An act of kindness she did not want fussily acknowledged?
The Countess gave the willow basket to Xenia as a gift, but kept the bodkin. It really was an excellent tool for a lady – small, neat, deadly and purse-sized.
Mr Chandrapur had been responsible for putting together the picnic and it was testament to his usefulness to procure from the cook some tasty morsels at short notice. Xenia had managed to secure some hot tea and cold beer from the coaching inn and the feast was complete. They would have lingered longer but were mindful to get underway as soon as possible. Several hours later they were in Edinburgh. It was in Princes Street that the Countess and the Rajah alighted from the carriage which then proceeded to the harbour with their luggage and their respective servants where the Rajah’s clipper ship – East Wind - was moored.
The Rajah expected the Countess to occupy herself with shopping for new fripperies and arranged to meet her in the Balmoral Tea Shop at six o’clock, but she announced she had an errand of her own to see to and would meet him on his ship in time for a late supper.
The Archives’ Office was just closing its doors when she pushed against the outgoing throng. The head archivist was adamant she could not enter but she met bureaucratic obstinacy with a charm offensive and some shameless name-dropping. The Cruddock moniker plus her own aristocratic title plus three pieces of silver eventually won him over. After the building emptied out, he directed her to a large desk, lit a paraffin lamp, and brought her several large tomes which recorded every detail of the Scottish Witch Trials.
The East Wind was a typical opium clipper, tall-sparred, sleek-hulled, with a massive boom extending from its slender bow. The Countess paid off the cabbie and turned toward the gangway.
“A penny for the old guy?”
Startled, she spun round and in the shadow of some wool bales and coiled ropes was a cadaverous beggar wrapped in filthy rags, sitting cross-legged, his hair and face scoured by the biting North Sea wind. She dropped her last shilling into his begging bowl and watched as a greedy hand with elongated fingers scooped it up.
Fedir was waiting for her at the foot of the gangplank.
“Arrange for that beggar to have some hot food,” she instructed.
“What beggar?”
“That one,” she said, looking back over her shoulder, but the miserable wretch had slunk off to the nearest tavern quicker than a rat down a drain.
The Countess’s appetite was negligible and she could hardly keep her eyes open following the strain of reading faded transcripts under dim lamplight. Straight after supper, taken in the Rajah’s luxurious cabin, she elicited sincere apologies, took herself off to bed and fell immediately into a deep sleep, aided by the lulling motion of the waves that gently rocked the ship as if it were a cradle. Numberless hours later, she was woken abruptly from her slumber when she was almost tossed out of her bunk. A change of tide and a stronger wind perhaps, she thought, as she rolled over and fell back asleep. And thus she slept soundly until a voice roused her none too gently.
“Countess! Countess!”
“Go away.”
“The ship, it has sailed in the night!”
“What ship?”
“This ship!”
That roused her! Eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright, hitting her head on the bunk above. The gentle bobbing motion of a ship moored in a sheltered bay had morphed into the unmistakable sensation of a sleek vessel clipping the waves. Her ears caught the creak and groan of timbers as waves dashed the hull and the ship pitched and rose and pitched again.
Panic, goaded by the twins of Fear and Confusion, spurred the Countess into action. She threw back the bedcovers, leapt out of her bunk, pushed her arms through the sleeves of the dressing gown the maid held out, and stormed the deck. White light was painting the east with broad strokes, a precursor to the dawn, and yes, the clipper ship was skimming the waves, its square-rigged canvas sails harnessing the fullness of the wind. Dark-skinned sailors were scrambling like monkeys up and down rope ladders, dangling from cross beams, unfurling yet another sail until at least thirty of them flapped like angry giant birds, including skysails, moonrakers, and three studding-sails attached to the boom.
Fortunately, they had not yet lost sight of the coast of Scotland. It was not too late to turn back.
An adrenal rush propelled the Countess straight to the cabin of the Rajah. Guarding his door was Mr Chandrapur. Did the ghost-cat never sleep?
“Get out of my way!” she snapped.
He stood with arms crossed in front of his substantial chest. “The master is asleep.”
“Not for long!” she dared. “Get out of my way!”
They heard a sleepy voice from inside the cabin.
“Let the Countess pass.” The deep husky voice was muffled by layers of coverlets.
“Turn this ship around and return at once to the harbour!” she commanded as soon as she pushed past the factotum, Xenia hot on her heels. “I will not be kidnapped! Do you hear! Turn back at once!”
The Rajah raised himself on his elbows. His chest was bare and little whorls of black hair sprinkled the mahogany expanse. Minus his turban, some glossy black hair spilled over broad naked shoulders.
“Calm yourself, dear Countess. Let me explain.” He turned briefly to his factotum. “Darjeeling and brioches.”
The Countess continued to pace the Oriental rug, the blood chugging through her veins, though she no longer felt panicked. The feeling that had overtaken fear and confusion was anger. Incensed, she was not about to couch her displeasure in feminine niceties. “Do not tell me to calm myself! There is nothing more infuriating to a woman than to be told by a man to calm herself when she has every reason to feel angry!”
“Yes, yes” he placated. “It makes light of your fears.”
“It is condescending and patronizing!”
“That too, yes, but draw breath, dear Countess, dismiss your maid and let me explain.”
Reluctantly, she dismissed Xenia with a nod of her head but continued to pace the rug like a caged tigress, hackles raised, teeth barred, claws out, roused and growly.
“You are not being kidnapped,” he assured. “We are sailing to Berwick-on-Tweed. The carriage will meet us in Berwick later this morning, having been driven by one of my men overnight using fresh horses.”
