by Anna Lord
“To what end?” she demanded.
“Our return journey today will be the shorter for it.”
She continued to pace fiercely, combing elongated fingers through her unbrushed brunette mane but paused abruptly and glanced down at a desk strewn with papers and documents when something momentarily caught her eye and held it. “Why, er, why was I not informed of your plan last night?”
“You appeared exhausted. I did not wish to burden you with plans which were not fully formed. I made the decision only after you had retired for the evening.”
“It seems a lot of fuss and bother for the sake of a few hours of travelling time.”
The Rajah pulled himself upright and leaned against a bank of pillows. His travelling companion was proving even more attractive with fire in her cheeks, and some scandalous tresses cascading slumbrously halfway down her back, swaying like a burnished bell from side to side each time she flicked her head. And the silky peignoir silhouetting her slender frame was enough to inflame the meekest of men. The Rajah could feel himself getting hard. An ancient Sanskrit text told of fair-haired invaders. He had always believed them to be Scythians – the name of the people who inhabited Ukraine in ancient times. Circassian beauties had always been the most prized.
“I received an urgent telegram yesterday in Edinburgh informing me of some unrest in my kingdom. One of my ambitious brothers is stirring up a nest of vipers. As soon as the tiara is in my hands, the morning after the wedding, I shall set sail for my homeland. Every extra mile I cover now will be one less mile to cover then. To that end we sail east. We drop anchor in time for breakfast.”
This extra information went some way to calming her nerves. She digested the explanation and drew breath for the first time since waking in fright with visions of white slave traders, eastern flesh pots, marriage markets, nabobs, brothels and corsairs playing havoc with her fertile imagination. Mrs Radcliffe had a lot to answer for! Fantasies were all very romantic until you were forced to actually live them!
Without warning he caught her arm and jerked her off her feet. She landed awkwardly on top of him. The kiss that followed was masterful and all too brief, cut short by the return of the Ghost Cat.
“I have revealed my secret,” said the Rajah when they were trundling west in the carriage, following yet another road to Cruddock Castle, “now it is your turn.”
“My turn?”
“You have a secret. Everyone does.”
“Certainly, but a lady’s charms are diminished by revealing too much.”
“I am not referring to your past. You can weave whatever fantasy suits you. I am referring to the present. Why did you come to Graymalkin?”
She had feared for a moment he was alluding to the fact she was the daughter of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler, but of course he could not possibly know it. Mycroft Holmes was the only person, other than Dr Watson, who knew of it.
“As I explained that first night at dinner - I inherited Graymalkin from my step-aunt and decided to see for myself exactly what it was that I had inherited.”
“And Dr Watson?”
“My dear friend and a native Scot, being rather passionate about golf and wanting to make sure his late wife’s niece was faring well, offered to accompany me when he read about the Lammermoor tournament in the newspaper.”
“He is not your lover?”
She laughed. “I like him too much to ever take him as a lover!”
“I am relieved to hear it, though worryingly, it implies you are not averse to taking a lover and that you would choose a man you actually dislike.”
Strange that talking about possible lovers to a prospective husband was less fraught with pitfalls than talking about why she had come to Graymalkin.
“I am not averse to taking a lover, though I have not yet done so. If and when I do take a lover I will certainly choose someone I like rather than loathe, though I will think twice before ruining a good friendship.”
“Intimacy strengthens friendship - the act of intercourse is raw and honest.”
Her step-aunt’s voice came back to her – sex and friendship cancel each other out, sex is play-acting, friendship is real - the former is transient, the latter enduring…
“The act of intercourse is full of conceit – that is what makes it so much fun but ultimately self-defeating.”
He threw back his head and laughed richly before meeting her gaze. “Speaking of conceit, you still have not told me why you really came to Graymalkin?”
She quickly intuited a lie would not suffice, and sometimes one secret needed to be exposed for another to stay safely hidden. “Dr Watson was a great friend of the detective Sherlock Holmes. They solved many mysteries together. I’m afraid my dear friend now fancies himself as a bit of a sleuth,” she dissembled convincingly. “The reasons I gave for our coming are true, but you can add that he was intrigued by the three deaths, four counting Mr Brown, and was keen to get to the bottom of them.”
“Ah, that is why you pressed me for my view on the matter?”
“I admit I was curious as to what you thought since you have been here from the outset. Do you consider the three deaths to be mere accidents? Or murder?”
“Murder,” he said.
“But why?”
“To destroy Lord Cruddock.”
“Who would wish such a thing?”
“If Dr Watson is looking for a culprit he is spoilt for choice. A rich man has no friends, only levels of enemies. They are called Envy, Resentment, Revenge, Righteousness, Jealousy, Greed, Ambition and Hate. I think Dr Watson will find that the murderer is not an outsider. The deadliest viper is the one underfoot.”
“Tell me about the Indian Mutiny.”
Rain set in at midday when they stopped for lunch at a farmhouse, and continued throughout the afternoon. They arrived at Cruddock Castle in time for afternoon tea. Dr Watson was amongst those waiting to greet them. Before the Countess could enjoy a second cup of Mr Twinings the doctor had ushered her into the landau and was whisking her back to Graymalkin, talking eagerly about the events of the day.
“I tried to find out as much as I could about Mr MacDuff without arousing his suspicion. He claims to be a member of the Shepstone Golf Club and says he was dispatched as an observer to report on the prospect of holding a similar tournament next year at his club. But I am not convinced. His explanation sounds far too similar to that of the Rajah of Govinda and his knowledge of golf is poor and his caddying skills laughable. What’s more, he arrived well after the tournament commenced. He ended up caddying for Mr Larssensen after the three murders sent everyone else packing. No other caddies were forthcoming and he stepped up. I will be keeping a close eye on him during the next few days.”
“By the way, the Rajah is not here to observe the tournament. That was a ruse invented by Lord Cruddock. The Rajah is here to purchase the Lammas tiara.”
The doctor regarded her quizzically. “You heard this from the Rajah’s own lips? Or is this something you intuited by way of feminine logic?”
She ignored the provocation. “The tiara features the Govinda diamond. It once belonged to the Rajah’s family. It was stolen during the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857, otherwise known as the Indian Uprising, by Colonel Fotheringay and later commandeered by his superior officer, Lord Cruddock. The Rajah is keen to restore it to its rightful home.”
“I cannot believe his lordship would part with such an heirloom. I cannot believe his mother would countenance it. I cannot believe his fiancé would be happy about it either.”
“Lord Cruddock is bankrupt from gambling losses. The sale is a secret. Neither his fiancé nor his mother knows of it. The Rajah is waiting until after the wedding day to spirit it away. It is the Rajah who is financing the golf tournament. He believes the murders are being committed by someone close to his lordship who is out to destroy him.”
“He could well be speaking about himself. Years of rancour may have built up over the purloining of the tiara in the first place,
and having to buy back something which was yours in the first place cannot be an easy thing to stomach. Something like that sticks in a man’s craw. And his factotum recalls a wily assassin I once tangled with in Afghanistan. But I take my hat off to you - your trip to Edinburgh was not for nothing. Did you learn anything else?”
“The Rajah’s ship is no longer moored in the harbour. We sailed to Berwick-on-Tweed during the night. There is discontent in his kingdom which he must quell as soon as possible and he is hoping for a quick departure the morning after the wedding.”
The doctor’s voice took on a teasing tone. “Is the nabob still intent on making you his next concubine?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied blithely, “and the Lammas tiara will be mine to keep for my lifetime - a wedding gift!”
The doctor’s smile soured. “And what sort of dowry will he expect in return?”
“He did not mention a dowry.”
“I don’t wonder.”
She recognized jealousy when she heard it and laughed dismissively. “The real reason I went to Edinburgh was not to secure a new husband but to study the transcripts pertaining to the Scottish Witch Trials.”
“Sombre reading matter,” he commented with typical Scottish understatement. “Do you think there might be a connection between the Wicca symbolism and the events of the past?”
“I’m not sure but something Miss Lambert said stayed in my mind.”
“You may need to elaborate. I am in the dark.”
“The night of the Ouija game Miss Lambert said something about Lady Moira going to Edinburgh to read up about the Witch Trials. Lady Moira dismissed the remark rather briskly. Later that night, the howling wind kept me tossing and turning and I thought it odd that Lady Moira would travel all the way to Edinburgh to study archives she has had access to for most of her life, especially as she now has so much on her plate: the golf tournament, a family wedding, the play and so forth.”
“Not to mention some unhappy spirits and four murders,” he interrupted. “Please go on.”
“I remembered the two names she mentioned – Jennifer Gray and Alice Mawson.”
“The first victim of the Scottish Witchfinder General in the Borders and the last woman to be tried as a witch hereabouts,” he clarified to jog his memory.
“Yes, that’s right. Well, Jennifer Gray, the widowed owner of Graymalkin, was denounced as a witch by the local blacksmith, a man by the name of Dirk Ardkinglas, a failed suitor. She endured horrific torture in her own dungeon and died unrepentant. Graymalkin and the land that came with it passed into the hands of the Ardkinglas family before being sold off.”
“Sadly, that appears to be a common feature of witch trials. Revenge, greed and unrequited love coupled with the absolute power of a self-righteous misogynist acting in God’s name are all that is needed to justify unspeakable torture and unbearable suffering, but I don’t see the connection to the present.”
“Neither do I. Graymalkin must have passed through dozens of hands since then and now belongs to me. I simply shudder that there but for the grace of time and tide, go I.”
“What about the second name?”
“Alice Mawson, the last witch of the Borders, was denounced when the witch trials were on the wane.”
“The public had probably grown sick to death of torture.”
“Unlikely. Anyhow, Alice Mawson, also a wealthy widow, owned all the farmland that surrounds Cruddock Castle today. Her manor house stood on the site of Maw Crag and was originally called Lammas Castle Farm. She was also denounced by a member of the Ardkinglas clan after a milch cow went dry. She was not tortured but tried in a court of law, found guilty of bewitching the cow, and exiled. The interesting thing is that the presiding judge was a man named Judge Cruddock. And even more interesting, it was Judge Cruddock who ended up as the owner of her estate after she trudged off to parts unknown.”
“I see,” he said thoughtfully, stroking his beard. “The Cruddocks prospered at the expense of the exiled widow who most likely forfeited her wealth in exchange for her life. There is a connection, though it is tenuous at best. We are talking about a century ago.”
“That’s the really interesting part – the numeral 100.”
“I am still in the dark?”
“Do you recall the night of the Ouija game when the tile pointed to 100 and you said it didn’t make sense and Lady Moira responded with something like: that is because you cannot yet understand it.”
“I still don’t.”
“The date of the witch trial was the fifth of November 1799. The day of the wedding and the conclusion of the tournament will coincide with the day Alice Mawson was found guilty, relieved of her wealth and sent into exile with nothing but the clothes on her back at the start of winter – exactly 100 years ago.”
“A sad coincidence,” he concluded dismally. “Though I am loath to dismiss any fact as coincidence, this one is so tenuous it has faded into the far-fetched mists of time. You don’t seriously believe anyone would set out to avenge Mistress Alice after 100 years? And please don’t answer that. It was rhetorical.”
“All right then,” she pouted, “but one last thing before I rest my case. On our way to Edinburgh we stopped at a coaching inn on the outskirts of the Cruddock estate. Some children were building a huge bonfire and chanting: Remember, remember, the fifth of November. It seems that the far-fetched mists of time are still thriving in the Scottish Borders.”
He burst out laughing. “That rhyme has nothing to do with Alice Mawson. The children were singing about Guy Fawkes. The fifth of November commemorates the night he tried to blow up Parliament. In England he is a figure of derision, a straw man to be burnt on the pyre, in these parts he is a hero!”
Come midnight, and Dr Watson’s robust guffaws continued to echo in her ears. The moon cast a voyeuristic beam through the uncurtained glass and the wind rattled the panes. The embers in the fire were dying. The Countess attempted to resuscitate them with a handful of pine cones then moved to the window and felt the breath catch in her throat. Someone was hurrying across the footbridge, away from the castle, moving awkwardly like a blackbird with its wings clipped. She pressed her face to the misty glass and the blood froze in her veins. At the end of the footbridge, the figure paused a moment just as the moon sailed out from behind a cloud and that’s when she saw that out of the hooded head grew a set of antlers! She thought she might be dreaming and closed her eyes, counted to three, then re-opened them – the antlers were still there!
Suddenly the figure looked back at Graymalkin, directly up at her window, possibly attracted by the reddish glow from the resuscitated fire. In a moment of sheer terror, the Countess leapt back from the window, skidded on the rag rug and crashed to the floor, thankfully landing on her derriere. Her heart was thrashing and she was a mass of sweat despite the chill. After a few short breaths, she crept gingerly to the window and from behind a corner of the curtain peered out. But the supernatural shape had been swallowed up by the shadows of the night.
14
The Scottish Play
“I forgot to tell you that the police constable from Duns arrived yesterday to examine the body of Mr Brown,” said Dr Watson as they sat facing each other at the breakfast table. “After a cursory inspection of the kitchen courtyard and the dead body, the fool of a constable concluded that death was due to suicide. There will be an inquest on the seventh of November in Duns. Mr MacDuff will be summoned along with Mrs Ardkinglas and young Robbie Fyfe. My presence will not be required because a proper autopsy will be carried out by a surgeon who specializes in such things for the police.”
The Countess barely heard a word the doctor said. She was still thinking about what she had seen during the night, or perhaps what she thought she had seen. Antlers! Really! She must have been dreaming she was not dreaming! The shadows of the night, the strain of the carriage journey, talk of witches and the eerie presence of Jackdaw Wood - was enough to fuel any number of nightmares.
&nb
sp; “Is my hair all right, madame?”
The Countess looked up quickly. “I beg your pardon?”
Mrs Ross was standing in the doorway, a pot of tea in her hands. “You keep staring at my hair, madame. I wondered if there was something not right with it.”
Good grief! The Countess warned herself to get a grip. “No, no, it’s fine. I was just thinking that the way you have coiled it might suit me. It is very becoming, Mrs Ross.”
“Thank you, madame.”
“What is wrong with you this morning?” chided Dr Watson when they were alone in the breakfast room once again. “I don’t believe you heard a word I said.”
“Of course I did. You were talking about Mr Brown.”
“I moved on from that topic ten minutes ago. I was talking about the dress rehearsal. If we don’t get a move on we will arrive late and you know what that means. I hope you haven’t forgotten we are staying the night at the castle. Is twenty minutes enough time for you to gather any last minute things? I instructed Fedir to have the bags in the landau ready for nine o’clock. Where on earth is Xenia?” he finished with exasperation.
Throughout the journey the Countess could not shake the image of Mrs Ross with antlers growing from her head. It was ridiculous, fanciful, mad, but there it was!
Scene 1: Upon a heath.
Thunder and lightning. Enter three witches.
The dramatic gestures and exaggerated poses of Countess Volodymyrovna, Miss Lambert and Xenia earned rare praise from Miss O’Hara. Encouraged, they hammed it up even more. When Xenia’s voluminous hood flew back (supposedly from a violent gust of wind) revealing the long blonde plait snaking like a golden serpent down her back, Miss O’Hara clapped her hands with glee.
“Bravo! Bravo!” she applauded. “A nice touch! I have never witnessed such a perfect trio of witches!” she lauded without a trace of irony. “Now for scene 2. A smooth change of scenery Mr Ross! Well done! Can we have some alarum – that means drums! Oh, wonderful! Perfect tempo! Good man, Fedir!”
