by Anna Lord
“Not exactly.”
“Did you overhear something sinister?”
“No.”
“Did you see something suspicious?”
“Not really. Not unless you count all the people creeping about as we speak.”
“What people?”
“Mr Dee. Mr Larssensen. Miss O’Hara. Miss Lambert. Mr Bancoe. I won’t count myself. I think you’re the only one who’s actually sleeping. Lord Cruddock and the Rajah are in his lordship’s private study discussing something. Lady Moira is drinking warm milk. And Miss Dee is entertaining her brother in her bedroom.”
“In case you failed to notice,” he pointed out acerbically, “I’m not sleeping either! I’m entertaining you!”
“Keep your voice down,” she warned, perching on the side of his bed and pulling her fur cloak around her knees. “Need I remind you we are not on vacation and that the previous deaths remain unresolved and that the situation grows more dire by the day as we draw ever closer to the fifth of November? I have a terrible feeling there will be another murder this very night.”
“Very well,” he heaved through gritted teeth. “Who do you think will be murdered?”
“Lady Moira.”
He was still half asleep and didn’t say anything for several long moments while he pondered the possibility, recalling MacBee’s cryptic speech which had clearly been directed at Hecate the queen of witches. “You think MacBee will attempt to murder Lady Moira?”
The Countess raked some fingers through her cascading tresses and frowned. “Yes and no. Something doesn’t sit right. What struck me during her speech was the coherent malevolence of her tone. It did not have a mad or hysterical ring to it. In the woods she sounded insane, but tonight she sounded the opposite. I began to wonder if she had dramatised the part of a mad hag for my benefit. Then I wondered if she might do that for the benefit of others too – to keep them out of Jackdaw Wood. Who would want to have an encounter with Mad Mother MacBee? But this is the truly puzzling part – her well-rehearsed soliloquy did not sound like a death threat but an inducement to self-murder.”
“Are you sure you are not dramatising? What struck me was that she was able to enter and exit the castle without being spotted. So much for security! But self-murder! Really! Lady Moira struck me as a woman who is not open to suggestion unless it is from the spirit world.”
The Countess pursed her lips. “I admit it seems unlikely. But the other thing that struck me was the mention of 100 years of wrong. There is no denying it is a reference to Alice Mawson.”
“MacBee is hardly likely to avenge herself on Lady Moira for something that happened 100 years ago. And remember it was the Cruddocks who were in the wrong. Lady Moira married into the family. She cannot be held accountable.”
The Countess sighed wearily. “You are the voice of reason, Dr Watson. I allowed my imagination to get the better of me – and not for the first time since we arrived I am sorry to say. I think I am frustrated by our lack of progress. There are so many loose ends I don’t know which one to pick up as I run from one to another tying myself in knots.”
“Go back to bed,” he said, suppressing a yawn. “You will feel better in the morning and things will seem clearer then too. The middle of the night is never a good time to tap into logic. It is a time for tapping into dreams. Especially when that night is Hallowe’en.”
15
The Lammas Tiara
Everyone tapped late into their dreams after their midnight meanderings. It was ten o’clock before the Countess, who prided herself on being an early riser, surfaced for breakfast. The first face she looked for when she entered the dining room was Lady Moira’s, and she felt more than a touch worried when she saw that neither the dowager nor Miss Lambert was present.
Lord Cruddock and the Rajah were seated at opposite ends of the large mahogany table. Mr Chandrapur was serving the Rajah some scrambled eggs and black sausage from the sideboard.
“Another cup of tea,” directed the Rajah to his factotum, “and make sure the tea does not spill into the saucer when you stir the sugar.”
Lord Cruddock was instructing the maid to take some breakfast on a tray upstairs to his fiancé. “Miss O’Hara does not eat kedgeree for breakfast,” he reminded in clipped tones. “Some toast with marmalade and a pot of Earl Grey and make sure to put a vase of flowers on the tray. You will find several vases in the library. Choose something small and pretty with blooms that have not wilted overnight.”
Mr Larssensen was eating with gusto, looking rather pleased with himself. Mr Bancoe was looking dour, frowning at his haggis. And the Dees were looking murderous, staring darkly at each other. You could cut the air with a knife.
“Good-morning,” greeted the Countess cheerily as she took her seat and the butler hurried across with a pot of her favourite breakfast tea. “The Scottish play was a great success,” she commented airily before lying through her teeth. “I fell into bed and slept like the dead.”
No one replied to her bit of banter and it soon became clear that their minds were on something else, something that had taken place either during the night or in the early hours of the morning, something that was about to become clear.
“You cannot change the rules at this late stage,” protested Miss Dee, looking beseechingly at her god-father as she moved a forkful of sausage around her plate.
“It is my tournament, young lady. I can change the rules at any stage I like.”
“But it is unfair,” whined Carter Dee in support of his beleaguered sister.
“What is unfair,” cut in Mr Larssensen somewhat righteously, “is playing a golf tournament between four deaths and a dramatic performance of Shakespeare. It is only right that his lordship has taken the decision this morning to allow Mr Bancoe and myself to play one more round of eighteen holes.”
“But I have packed my bags,” interposed Mr Bancoe gloomily, leaning on his elbows. “I was planning to leave straight after breakfast.”
Mr Larssensen turned sharply. “It was your caddy who was killed,” he reminded forcefully. “You were at a massive disadvantage without a caddy, and that well-meaning doctor was hardly a suitable substitute. It was most unfair to be handicapped in such a way. It is only right that his lordship has granted us one last chance. Fair is fair!”
“Oh, piffle!” scoffed Miss Dee. “This has nothing to do with fairness. This is about milking publicity. The reporters and photographers will need something to keep them occupied until the wedding day so that they don’t high-tail it back from whence they came!”
“And we all know who convinced god-father to change his mind,” added Mr Dee.
“I admit Miss O’Hara intervened,” conceded Lord Cruddock gruffly. “She is well-versed in matters regarding publicity as we all witnessed last night.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr Dee snidely. “But who stands to benefit from this current intervention?”
He aimed an Arctic eye directly at Mr Larssensen and it didn’t take much brainpower to work out that Miss O’Hara had worked her interventionist magic for the sake of her lover.
Lord Cruddock slammed his fist on the table in a fit of distemper. “What are you implying, young man?”
“Nothing,” mumbled Mr Dee, hands shaking as he brought his teacup to his lips to moisten chapped lips. “Nothing at all, god-father,” he back-tracked swiftly - noting the unhealthy royal purple flush.
It was at this moment that Dr Watson arrived. He quickly spotted the storm cloud hanging over the table and went straight to the sideboard for a cup of strong black coffee though he rarely drank the stuff so early in the day and actually preferred tea.
Mr Bancoe broke the tension. “I don’t really want to play another round of golf. You can count me out. I still plan to leave straight after breakfast.” He turned to his player-partner. “You’re on your own, Lars. Good luck, old chap. I must get home to the family.”
The Viking frothed and spluttered. “But you don’t have any family! You’re
not married!”
Mr Bancoe gulped some tea the wrong way and coughed violently, his voice was raw and hoarse. “I was referring to my old mother in Aberdeen. She has been sickly all year and I don’t like to leave her on her own for too long.”
“But you’re contracted until the fifth of November,” argued the Viking.
“That’s right,” threatened Lord Cruddock, anxious to avoid any new negative publicity. “If you pull out you forfeit your fee.”
“And for me to play you must play too,” pleaded the Viking, placing tragic emphasis on the too. “It is all or nothing. The two of us together. You cannot run off now!”
Mr Bancoe pushed to his feet with nervous abruptness, almost knocking over his own teacup. “I’m sorry, Lars, but you are on your own.” He turned to his host and lifted his chin, not belligerently, but bravely and honourably. “Your generosity and hospitality has been most heartening, your lordship, but my mind is made up. I will forgo my fee if you insist on it. This tournament has been a nightmare from start to finish and my nerves have suffered, yes, suffered. When Mr Brown was found dead I was ready to pack up and go home, but I stayed on for the sake of my golfing partner and because of the Scottish play which has always been my favourite and because it was a high honour to grace the same stage as Miss O’Hara, but I cannot stay a moment longer. I must take my leave for the sake of my jangled nerves. I bid you all farewell.”
A wave of inexpressible relief carried him swiftly to the door where the maid who had been tasked with arranging the breakfast tray for Miss O’Hara crashed straight into him. The dour Scot caught the flustered girl by the shoulders to steady her, then in a flurry of embarrassment, hastened from the room.
“Sir! Sir!” the maid stammered, addressing herself to his lordship, forgetting to curtsey. “The glass case in the library has been broken! The tiara has gone!”
Several things happened in swift succession.
The maid remembered to curtsey.
Lord Cruddock and the Rajah exchanged surreptitious glances.
Mr Chandrapur dropped a china teacup full of carefully stirred tea and sugar.
Miss Dee blasphemed and Mr Dee uttered a profanity.
Mr Larssensen mopped up his runny eggs with a tranche of bread and gobbled it down.
Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna sprang to their feet and rushed from the room simultaneously.
They were the first into the library. Shards of glass littered the rug in front of the fireplace. The fire poker was lying among the shards. It didn’t take much deduction to ascertain how the thief had broken the glass. The other curios were still in place. The only thing missing was the tiara.
“Where are the four footmen?” barked the doctor as soon as his lordship appeared.
“I dismissed them at midnight,” responded the other somewhat calmly, “straight after the castle was locked up. I did not think the tiara would need protecting from family, friends and those guests whom I had invited into my home. The glass case was locked and I have the key in my pocket.” He drew it out and held it up to prove it.
“What about protecting the tiara from the servants?” quizzed the doctor, stunned by the lack of security, scanning the faces of the family, friends and guests massing behind Lord Cruddock, staring in mute dismay at the shattered cabinet. “Starting with the four footmen!”
“All the servants have been with me for years. Some have been with the family for decades. The four footmen were born into service here on the estate. They have had ample opportunity to steal. Nothing is kept locked up. I take precautions naturally, but this is not a museum. It is unthinkable that a servant would purloin the Lammas tiara. Besides, where would he sell it? How would he dispose of it? It is too famous.”
The Countess concurred with Lord Cruddock’s reasoning. This was not the handiwork of servants. In her experience servants were often blamed for stealing and peremptorily dismissed when in fact it was a member of the family in need of ready cash, or a poor relation, or simply a good excuse for dismissal, such as a pretty serving girl that the wife is jealous of, or a faithful old arthritic retainer the family wish to replace but do not have the heart to dismiss out of hand.
Cruddock Castle was an Aladdin’s cave of treasure. It would have been far easier for a servant to steal an ivory bibelot, a jewelled envelope opener, or a jade ornament - something small that would not be missed for days or weeks or years.
“Prior to last evening when the tiara was placed in the glass case,” posed the Countess, “where was it kept?”
“It was kept in Miss O’Hara’s bedroom,” responded Lord Cruddock. “I have a fire-proof document chest that I no longer require. It was stored inside the chest which was kept locked at all times. Miss O’Hara kept the key in a secret place that only she was privy too. She expressed a desire to try on the tiara with different hair styles in the privacy of her bedchamber in readiness for the wedding day and I acquiesced.”
“That is extraordinary!” gurgled the doctor, agog with disbelief. “A priceless heirloom stored in a document chest in your fiancé’s bedroom!”
Lord Cruddock turned calmly to the doctor. “If your wife expressed a heartfelt desire did you not occasionally acquiesce?”
Shame-faced, the doctor coloured guiltily. He had not been able to deny his dear wife anything from the day he met her until the day she died. Love was a great leveller.
The Countess noted the way the doctor shrank back into himself and took charge. “I agree this could not be the handiwork of servants, nor do I believe that someone was daring enough to break into the castle during the night – though we cannot yet discount it - that leaves only one option.” She paused and drew breath, allowing those present to comprehend for themselves what that option might be. “That means it must have been one of us.”
Immediately on finishing her pronouncement she held up a hand. “Please keep your indignation to yourselves. I am not accusing anyone. But I will let you know that last night I had something on my mind and went to discuss my concern with my friend, Dr Watson. As I wandered from the east wing to the west wing at midnight I saw Mr Dee, Mr Larssensen, Miss O’Hara, Mr Bancoe and Miss Lambert wandering about. I also heard Lord Cruddock and the Rajah discussing something in his lordship’s private study. It seems clear to me that no one was asleep and that everyone had ample opportunity to steal the tiara.” She ignored the sea of red faces and turned to Lord Cruddock. “Please instruct a servant to detain Mr Bancoe. His bags will need to be searched. Not that I am accusing him. It is merely a precaution. Everyone will have their bags and rooms searched in due course.”
“Not me surely!” remonstrated the Rajah, looking meaningfully at the Countess.
“Everyone!” she repeated sternly. “There is more to the missing tiara than meets the eye. We cannot assume this to be a straightforward theft. Four deaths suggest something else may be at play and it is high time to get to the bottom of whatever it is.”
“Why should you take charge?” demanded Miss Dee.
“Yes,” added Mr Dee with an arrogant tilt of his chin and an icy stare. “Shouldn’t the police be called? Something as valuable as the tiara is a matter for Scotland Yard.”
“I have no intention of taking charge,” the Countess replied with egalitarian hauteur. “I am merely voicing what everyone else is thinking. I agree the Yard should be notified as soon as possible and a search of the castle organized sooner rather than later.” She glanced at the bracket clock on the marble mantle. It was ten minutes to eleven and she was acutely aware that neither Lady Moira nor Miss Lambert had yet come downstairs to breakfast. That was her first concern. She had had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach all night and it had refused to abate. “In the meantime, I will look in on Lady Moira and inform her of what has happened and then I would like to speak to Miss O’Hara.” She turned once more to Lord Cruddock and softened her tone. “With your permission, of course, your lordship. I won’t disturb your fiancé for long. I have just one quest
ion that I wish to clarify. It may be useful to the Yard.”
Lord Cruddock gave a cavalier wave of his hand. “Yes, yes, by all means. I better start issuing instructions to the servants. Everyone else, please feel free to return to breakfast and then go about as you wish. No one is accusing you of theft. This unfortunate matter will soon be cleared up. I am sure the tiara will turn up in some unlikely spot and we will all have a grand old laugh.”
Disappointment was the only word to describe what the Countess felt after she pushed open Lady Moira’s bedroom door without knocking and found the dowager to be alive and well - or rather, alive and unwell. She expected to find the old lady dead.
Lady Moira was sitting up in bed with a cold compress to her forehead. The curtains were drawn. Miss Lambert was sitting in an armchair by the bedside. A single lamp cast a dollop of golden light on the book she was reading.
“Er,” stammered the Countess, smiling wanly, momentarily lost for words, before spotting the breakfast tray on the end of the bed. “I came up to see if you should be wanting some breakfast since you did not come down this morning but I see you have already breakfasted.”
Miss Lambert bookmarked the page and placed the book on her lap. “Yes, I brought up a tray earlier, before anyone had risen. Lady Moira is not feeling well this morning. But thank you for thinking of us.”
“I hope it is nothing serious,” replied the Countess stepping into the room and closing the door. “Is there something I can bring you? I always travel with some comprimes and cachets. Otherwise, I’m sure Dr Watson would be only too happy to give you an examination.”
Lady Moira opened her eyes and removed the compress from her forehead. “It is nothing to be concerned about, Countess Volodymyrovna,” she said cobwebbily. “I suffer from blinding headaches - a symptom of failing eyesight, old age and too many Scottish winters. I shall be as formidable as ever by the time we sit down to lunch. Open the curtain, if you will be so kind.”
