The Lammas Curse

by Anna Lord

  “East Wind.”

  “Apart from Mr Crawford Dee and the Ardkinglas family can you recall anyone else who lost a substantial amount of money?”

  “What do you call substantial?” the young man grated out belligerently, turning abruptly on his heel and stalking off.

  He got to the end of the footbridge before reconsidering. Dr Watson was still watching him.

  “The Rajah of Govinda lost the most,” Hamish shouted back over his shoulder. “Twice as much as Mr Crawford Dee and more than all the rest put together.”

  Catherine and Carter Dee arrived unexpectedly at Graymalkin in the afternoon. Cruddock Castle was being turned upside down and inside out. Everyone’s rooms were being ransacked and there was no privacy to be had anywhere. Lady Moira and Miss Lambert had removed themselves to Mawgate Lodge but not before having their bags thoroughly inspected. Lady Moira was livid with indignation and Miss Lambert was pink with embarrassment. The guilty never blush philosophised Mr Dee. And Miss O’Hara had become insufferable, added Miss Dee tartly. Posing for photographs and giving interviews which had nothing to do with the missing tiara but focused on her life story growing up in Dublin, liberally sprinkled with anecdotes about all the plays she has starred in. She changed her clothes three times, each time with more décolletage on display, much to the delight of the reporters and photographers who were now going over the library with a fine tooth comb like a bunch of Sherlock’s.

  “What is worse,” complained Miss Dee as they settled in front of the fire in the sitting room, “is that my brother and I have been told we cannot even play a round of golf. The links are out of bounds until a search has been conducted.”

  “Have you ever heard anything more ludicrous?” expounded Mr Dee. “As if a thief would go to all the effort of stealing a priceless tiara and then deciding that a golf course might be a good place to bury it!”

  “The world has gone mad!” huffed Miss Dee. “First, god-father granting that extra round and now this!”

  “Quite!” said her brother.

  Countess Volodymyrovna lent a sympathetic ear to the litany of ludicrous goings-on, looking from sister to brother and back again as they listed ever more gripes - and one thing struck her with potent force.

  “Lord Cruddock appears to be taking the theft of the tiara seriously then?”

  “How do you mean?” asked Miss Dee.

  “Well, he didn’t appear too perturbed this morning.”

  Brother and sister looked briefly at each other, as if to the read each other’s minds, and then turned back to the Countess, nodding in simultaneous agreement.

  “You’re right,” said Miss Dee. “God-father didn’t seem too bothered.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mr Dee, “he didn’t seem at all worried.”

  “Yet now it seems he has pulled out all stops,” mused the Countess. “I wonder why?”

  “Probably for the benefit of Scotland Yard,” offered Miss Dee spitefully.

  “Yes,” slated her brother, “he doesn’t want to look like a hopeless jackass.”

  “It is one thing to be led by the nose by his fiancé in private,” remarked his sister scathingly, “but another to have the world know it.”

  The sitting room door opened suddenly and Dr Watson appeared. His face fell when he saw they had company. He had been having a nap in his room, he explained as he joined them, painfully aware that it was too late to execute a retreat, much to his chagrin.

  The Dees recounted once more all the ludicrous goings-on at Cruddock Castle for the benefit of the doctor, adding that they had walked around the long way, past the hotel, since the golf course was out of bounds, and finishing with the fact that this was their first visit to Graymalkin. They had often seen it from the outside, but had not had the opportunity to set foot inside. The Countess immediately offered to give them a guided tour. It was not too large, she said, and they would be finished by the time Mrs Ross conjured up some buttered crumpets and a pot of tea.

  The Dees seemed especially amused by the dungeon’s grisly trappings and marvelled at the view of the golf course from the ramparts at the top of the tower.

  Afterwards, they made up a foursome and played ecarté until it was time to return to the castle. Horace harnessed the landau for the return journey as a vanguard of clouds heralded rain. Dr Watson and the Countess waved them off.

  “I think Carter Dee is our murderer,” said the doctor in a level tone devoid of emotion and sensation as the landau disappeared behind some trees.

  “When did you decide this?”

  “Yesterday, during the dress rehearsal,” he said with conviction. “I knew it as soon as Carter appeared on stage wearing greasepaint and a cloak of grey and purple tartan. The poacher who was seen lurking in the wood the day Mr Brown was murdered had dark skin and wore a grey and purple tartan cloak. I assumed it was Mr Chandrapur when Ned used the word darkie but I now believe it was Carter slathered in extra greasepaint. I think he murdered the first three golfers too.”

  “Motive?”

  “I have been giving it some thought and I’m glad you asked. The first murder may have been a case of eliminating the competition but our murderer got a taste for murder and it soon got out of hand. There are parallels to the Scottish play that may even have spurred the imagination of the murderers. Catherine and Carter Dee are extremely ambitious, as were Lord and Lady Macbeth. As for the murder of Mr Brown - it may have been a case of blackmail. Mr MacDuff suggested that Mr Brown may have arranged to meet someone in the kitchen courtyard. The kitchen staff were conveniently absent that day so it was a perfect spot to have a clandestine meeting, otherwise why not meet in the hotel sitting room or on the terrace. It is quite possible Mr Brown was attempting to blackmail the Dees. He may have seen something untoward regarding one of the earlier murders.”

  “Mmm,” responded the Countess with a nod of her head, much to the doctor’s delight, saving him the trouble of arguing his case with more vigour. “Did you remember to follow-up with Mr MacDuff about the broom and the cellar key?”

  The doctor nodded in the affirmative. “He claimed not to have noticed the broom down the well but agreed it could have been the instrument that caused the injury to the back of the neck. As for the key, he said he left it in the pocket of his jacket when he went to bed that night. The jacket was hanging on the back of his chair. The only time it was out of his sight was when he went to the bathroom in the morning to take his bath, trim his beard and use the latrine.”

  “Enough time for MacBee to borrow the key, open the cellar, excise the wart from Mr Brown’s hand and return the key to the pocket.”

  16

  Mad Mother MacBee

  Siblings will often share a common characteristic: Eye colour, hair colour, shape of nose, etc. Sometimes the feature will be attractive: dimples, a cleft chin, an upturned mouth. Sometimes it will be unfortunate: a long nose, a thick neck, sticking-out ears. And sometimes it will be a curious little defect that is hardly noticeable unless you see both siblings together at the same time and have an uninterrupted period of time in which to observe for it. During the game of ecarté the Countess’s eyes were drawn to the fact the Dees shared a curious little defect.

  As soon as Dr Watson had taken himself off to Cruddock Castle, caddying one last time for Mr Bancoe, the Countess wrapped herself up and took herself off to Jackdaw Wood. She soon located the spot where the trees had been felled in the storm and followed the path of destruction to the door of a small dwelling.

  This dwelling was not a sturdy, stone, crofter’s hut or a quaint, gingerbread cottage with thatched eaves. If was windowless and could have been mistaken for a dilapidated bird-hide. Most likely it had originally provided shelter for the gamekeeper and his underkeepers during periods of stormy weather. The only thing that stopped it being blown away was the fact it was tucked into a dense clump of furze and bracken which appeared to be holding it together.

  MacBee anticipated her approach. “Don’t bother kn
ocking, dearie. The door will fall down. I have put the kettle to the fire. Enter.”

  The broken door creaked on rusty hinges and the Countess entered warily to find MacBee stirring a cracked Toby teapot ready for pouring.

  The interior hinted at a primitive existence. A hole in the roof allowed smoke from a fire set into an earthen floor to vent, albeit with moderate success. A straw pallet served as a bed. On top of the bed was a large, lumpen, knobbly thing covered with a grey wool blanket. The shape was odd. Not quite human, not quite animal. The mind boggled. A pine table and three stools accounted for the rest of the furniture, and the number was telling.

  The Countess waited until MacBee had poured the tea into chipped cups. The old hag sat hunched over the table with her bony fingers wrapped around the steaming hot cup, and it was the hands that prompted the opening line.

  “Why do they call you Mad Mother MacBee?”

  The old hag eyed her suspiciously from under hooded lids. “Because I am mad, dearie. Drink up. It is dandelion and nettle tea - good for the complexion!”

  “You are no more mad than I, though you do put on a good performance, I grant you that, especially that first time I met you in the wood.”

  MacBee gave a cackle and gulped some tea.

  “No, it is not your madness that draws me here today. I was wondering about the rest of your name,” pursued the Countess, carefully sipping her brew and hoping it was not root of hemlock digg’d in the dark, though both cups had been poured from the same pot and MacBee was drinking confidently. “Why call you Mother?”

  MacBee shrugged carelessly and tilted her head. “Who knows why anything is so-called, dearie?”

  “Could it be that you are a mother?”

  MacBee put her hand to her ear as if she heard a noise and aimed a glance at the door. “Knock, knock, who’s there? In the devil’s name –? Knock, knock, who goes there? Is it Beelzebub? This place is too cold for hell. Knock, knock. Enter the brindled cat, Harpier, tis time, tis time…”

  “Stop it! You are trying to distract me, confound me, but it is futile. I know your secret.”

  MacBee’s bushy brows drew down darkly. “How do you know? Who told you? They are liars! All of them! Especially Hecate!”

  “No one told me. I surmised it for myself.”

  “Liar!” she screamed.

  The Countess remained calm to counter the high-pitched hysteria. “Some traits run in families. Twins, for instance.”

  MacBee threw back her head and cawed raucously. “You draw a long bow, dearie. Twins are common enough. Two’s a pair and all’s fair!”

  “Yes, yes, I grant you, but some traits are less common than others and some so rare that when they are shared by siblings they draw the eye. And when a complete stranger shares that same trait it makes one wonder at the weirdness of the world.” The Countess sipped her tea and stared at the bent and bony fingers with dirty nails wrapped around the chipped cup. “It is odd that Catherine and Carter Dee should share the same crooked pinky as a spinster who lives all alone in Jackdaw Wood.”

  MacBee didn’t say anything for a few moments and the Countess did not rush her.

  “Yes, damn you to hell!” the old lady cursed fiercely. “They were born out of wedlock to Crawford Dee. Is that what you wanted to hear? Well, now you have it!”

  The Countess should have felt triumphant but her eyes darted to the strange shape under the blanket. She still couldn’t figure out what it was. And the suspense of not knowing was tormenting her. “Will you tell me the story, Mother?” she prompted in a kind voice.

  MacBee expelled a hard breath. “A common enough story to begin: I was twenty-five years of age and unmarried. It was his last night in Scotland before going off to make his fortune in South Africa. I threw in my job as housemaid at Cruddock Castle before I began to show and went to live at Graymalkin with my sister who was housekeeper there. The laird who owned it never used it. It was too cold, too old, too cramped - it suited us well. She was raising Hamish, his lordship’s bastard, and had changed her name to Mrs Ross to make it seem as if she had been widowed. I kept with the family name - MacBee. It did not bother me what people said behind our backs. Three years later Crawford Dee, quite the rich gentleman, returned for a visit to Cruddock Castle. He had a chit of a wife in tow, a pretty little thing, rich, pale, sickly and childless. The night before they departed for South Africa he tricked me into meeting him here in the wood, to see his children for the first time, he said, but his lady wife came too. She died of fever on the return trip – serves her right! Anyway, they overpowered me and stole the twins. I must have hit my head when I fell. My sister found me wandering, dazed and raving, some days later. When I realized what had happened I went mad with grief. Oh, do not doubt the power of madness. I fell ill with brain fever and was sick for a long time. Days turned into weeks and weeks into years. My sister nursed me all that time. But the black dog of despair had taken hold of me and she could do nothing to wrench me from its slavering jaws. Eventually, I came to live here in this godforsaken place where God had forsaken me. Everyone called me mad but I didn’t care. I played up to it. It suited me. Maybe I was mad. Yes, I admit I was. Maybe I still am. Yes, at night when I am all alone and I hear the mournful wind and the clouds shedding bitter tears I feel quite mad. Mad Mother MacBee!”

  “How did you feel when your children returned to live at Cruddock Castle?”

  “Lo and behold! My darling children!” She began melodramatically, breathing heavily, before switching to a detached tone, like that of a narrator. “But they do not know their mother. They have been fed lies - told their mother died on the birthing bed - and what will they do with the truth? How could they love a filthy hag? Who wants a mother who is penniless and mad?”

  “They still don’t know?”

  She shook her frowzy head and came back to herself. “They have ambition. They can be famous. Carter - an actor on the Shakespearean stage. You saw his performance. He is born to it. And Catherine a golfer – the first woman to turn professional! Destiny has marked them out for greatness. I cannot allow Truth to ham-string a brilliant future. I want what is best for them.”

  If the Countess had any doubts about MacBee’s narrative or her own deductive abilities they were dispelled in that moment. Solomon could not have devised more fitting proof of maternal self-sacrifice. She pressed on quickly before the moment was lost.

  “That is why you put the Wicca symbols at the scene of the murders - to draw attention away from them to you?”

  It was wild surmise, an impression formed from snippets, a bit of female intuition wrapped in inspiration that had been forming in the back of the Countess’s mind for some time. It hit a raw nerve.

  MacBee nodded before thinking, admitting her guilt, and also that of her children. It was too late to backtrack. She had implicated all three. But it was clear she wanted to unburden herself too. She had bottled up the truth for so long it had nearly sent her stark raving mad.

  “I shadowed my darlings as often as I could. I wanted to spend as much time with them as possible. I wanted to soak up everything about them. I had yearned and pined and dreamed of my darlings for so long. I was watching from behind a tree when Carter drove his golf club into the man’s head. I was still watching when Carter hurried away and Catherine arrived dressed as her brother and drove a golf ball into the bloody wound, cleaned up the club, put it into her golf bag and hurried off another way. I knew they would be suspected. I arranged the dead hand in the horned pose to point the finger at the mad witch of the wood.”

  “And the second death?”

  “Murder is like madness. Once it has taken seed there is no un-seeding it, once it has taken root it will grow and grow. I became vigilant. And sure enough it came to pass. I didn’t witness what happened exactly but when I came across the drowned man I knew at once it must have been Carter’s doing. I had the dead cat at the ready in my sack. I threw it in the water next to the body.”

  “You c
ame back later to cut off the paw. Why?”

  “When I got wind that the Irish actress intended to stage the Scottish play I decided to stage a little play of my own. I decided to collect some bits and bobs from the dead bodies and anything else that might recall the three weird sisters on the heath. It would be proof of my madness should the time come to confess and save their souls. It fooled you, admit it now.”

  The Countess conceded that it did. “It was a grand performance. I think Carter must get his acting skills from his mother.”

  The old crone chuckled and looked pleased. She was enjoying herself. “Some more tea, dearie?”

  The Countess held out her cup. “Dandelion and nettle, did you say? It’s very refreshing and has a pleasing taste. Thank you, kindly. And the third?”

  MacBee stared at the steam curling from her teacup. “There was fog that morning. I was watching from the top of Graymalkin tower to see if I could spot my darlings before the fog thickened. I saw Carter run toward Widdershins Brig and Catherine head for the abbey ruin. She was carrying two golf bags and I thought, ah, the game’s afoot. Shortly, along came a witless golfer and his feckless caddy. Fog cloaked the view and I couldn’t see what happened next but I knew in my bones something wicked had taken place. I hurried as fast as I could go to the brig. Nothing! I was cutting through the birch wood to the abbey ruin when I almost tripped over the dead body. Quick as a wink I whipped out a corn dolly and tied it to a branch.”

  “An inspired touch,” complimented the Countess, her eyes darting once again to the queer shape under the blanket.

  “Thank you, dearie, I thought so too. It did confound those London men. They scratched their heads and it did amuse me. It had been so long since I had laughed or even smiled.”

  “Carter and Catherine must have been baffled too?”

  “Oh, yes, they must have scratched their heads more than once. All things pointed to me but who could say why I would bother to kill three strangers when I had kept myself to myself for so long. I was a toothless dog, a harmless hag, a mad old loon gone soft in the head. Everyone said so for years and years.”