by Anna Lord
“Out, out, brief candle! Double, double death!”
The Countess was seated opposite Lady Moira and she could see reflected in the gilt-framed mirror above the mantel what the others had not yet noticed. Four birds were hovering outside the window – a white, a red, a black and a blue bird.
One by one, the others saw them too, all except Lady Moira who remained in a trance-like state, staring blindly into the abyss. Hearts stopped and throats constricted, fingers clenched and everyone blanched. And just when everyone thought they’d had enough of the so-called spirit world there appeared at the window a circlet of white stars, diamond bright, winking at the night!
“My tiara!” screamed Lola O’Hara, breaking the spell-spinning enchantment of the séance before promptly fainting into her fiancé’s arms.
Miss Lambert gasped and swooned and was caught by Judge Cruddock.
Dr Watson kicked back his chair and raced toward the bow window. He almost collided with Mr Dee who raced to check the mirror instead. Mr Larssensen shook the damask curtains and stood on a small library ladder to run his hand along the gilded pelmet, checking for hidden wires. Mr Bancoe checked under the table for hidden box cameras. The Rajah ordered his factotum (tucked discretely into a niche) to search the garden then, himself, ran to help the Countess who was attempting to transport Lady Moira - light-headed and rambling incoherently – to an armchair. Someone called for brandy.
Miss Dee, thinking clearly as usual, went to the bell pull to summon the butler. She then began lighting candles, which helped to dispel the chaos.
Mr Chandrapur returned from the garden to report that he had found no one lurking outside. The slate-paved terrace meant it was impossible to check for footprints, but morning might reveal some clue that could not be discerned under cover of darkness.
Servants came bearing tea trays and a drinks trolley laden with alcoholic beverages. Cigars were lit by several of the men who needed to keep their hands busy and everyone proffered a theory:
“A trick of the misty moonlight reflected in the curvature of the glass.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised to find it was down to a few scampish tricksters from The Quotidienne having some fun at our expense. Rogues and scumbags – the lot of ’em.”
“Someone with a grudge against his lordship – a disgruntled tenant farmer or ex-servant is usually behind such shenanigans – mark my words.”
“Last month there was a fire at the lunatic asylum in Duns. Madmen are often drawn to places where murders have occurred and go in for senseless frightening jackanapes. It gives them a sickening thrill.”
“Some seabirds from the Orkneys with salt-encrusted feathers – that explains the sparkly glint. Our imaginations did the rest.”
“Bats – they were bats. The poor creatures can lose their sense of direction in certain weather, and the way the candlelight reflected off their velvet wings did the rest.”
“I thought they were fireflies. Wrong season, I know, but it was unseasonably warm last summer and some may have survived into autumn. The curved glass would have magnified their iridescence. They are quite magical.”
“If we are talking insects then I would say moths. They are attracted to the light. It is a simple explanation but the simple explanation is often the best according to William of Occam.”
“Snowflakes swirling on the north wind. Occam would find that simple enough.”
“Witchcraft should not be discounted. Witches cavort with Lucifer and he employs supernatural powers to confound those dabbling in the dark arts.”
“Oh, tosh! It was a message from the spirit world:
The whitebird calls tomorrow,
The redbird smiles hollow,
The blackbird cries sorrow,
The bluebird will follow…the tiara will soon be found.”
18
Remember, Remember
Catherine and Carter Dee teed-off at 9.30 in thick fog. A large crowd of locals bolstered by reporters, photographers and sketch artists followed the game from fairway to fairway, gathering strength and number as the game unfolded and the fog lifted. Those of morbid persuasion were hoping to stumble upon a dead body but the only sensation came at the end of the eighteen holes when Catherine out-scored her brother by a whacking eleven shots. Carter proved to be a gracious loser. He bear-hugged his sister and lifted her off the ground and swung her round and called for three cheers…Hip, hip, hooray!
“Lesser than yet greater,” remarked Dr Watson. “What a jolly good sport! I am ashamed to say I had him pegged all wrong. By the way, I noticed you were the only person not to proffer an explanation about the strange visitation at the window during the séance.”
“I had my back to the window,” reminded the Countess, busy scanning for a furtive figure clad in Black Watch tartan. None could be seen and yet the Countess felt the palpable presence of a giant blackbird watching from a distance, training a beady eye from on high. “The wind is picking up. Shall we head for home? We can partake of a late lunch. I believe Mrs Ross is making kidney pie.”
His stomach gave an appreciative rumble. “A short kip will go down well after lunch. Instruct Xenia to have your overnight bags packed by six o’clock. We must leave Graymalkin no later than half past six.”
“How many wedding guests is his lordship expecting?” asked the Countess, wondering how difficult it would be to steer the judge away from the Earl and Countess of Lomond, Lord and Lady Trefoyles, et al.
“Not as many as originally expected. Last night, whilst you were gallivanting around the castle, Miss Lambert informed me in confidence that most of the wedding invitations were politely declined. Lord and Lady Trefoyles, for instance, suddenly found themselves committed to an engagement in London. Others suddenly came down with a mysterious malady or found circumstances necessitated them travelling abroad at short notice. The inference being that they are either too frightened to attend, unsurprising after four murders, or too scandalised, meaning they do not wish to bless the marriage of a lord to an actress.”
“What puritans! Last month le Duc de Beauvoisin married a trapeze artiste from a circus and last summer the Prince of San Marlino married his laundress!”
“The Scottish Borders is not Paris or Monaco or Odessa. Once her ladyship produces an heir and disports herself with noblesse oblige things will change. In the meantime, the wedding guests will consist of local gentry rather than aristocracy, same as the night of the Scottish play.”
“Yes, I did wonder about that at the time,” she mused, before finishing on a lighter note, “Perhaps Lord Cruddock’s noble friends are also terrified of Loch Nessie!”
Gurged with golden light, the chapel had undergone a re-metamorphosis from theatre to place of worship and was aglow with luminescence from a hundred beeswax tapers. It was a quiet ceremony devoid of showy splendour. The bride wore a white wool cape edged in ermine that swept the floor. She teamed it with a gown cut from local tartan which earned unexpected praise from the dowager. But it was the Lammas tiara that drew everyone’s gaze. It had been miraculously discovered on the library table by the liveried butler one hour prior to the wedding as he made his rounds to check that everything had been set right from the night before.
Lola O’Hara was luminous with rapture at the last minute miracle, and for the first time in her life rendered humble and speechless.
The grand ballroom had been spruced up with silk divans, scented candles and an orchestra. A traditional Highland fling kicked off proceedings. Lord Cruddock, handsome in kilt and sporran, was persuaded to join in and proved remarkably sprightly for a man in his fifties.
Dr Watson, equally handsome in his own kilt was for once in his element in a social setting. He and the Countess danced three dances in a row.
“I can’t remember the last time I had such a good time,” he enthused, face sheened with sweat, clapping in time to the music and beaming broadly each time they took a breather. “I claim you for the Scottish reel – don’t forget!”
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“I’m looking forward to it,” she beamed back blissfully. “In the meantime why don’t you ask Mrs Ardkinglas for the next dance?”
“She has been claimed by Mr Horsefield. I might ask Miss Lambert instead.”
“I think you are too late. Hamish Ross has staked his claim. What about Mrs Ross? Red and green tartan has done wonders for her complexion, she looks ten years younger.”
He spotted Miss Dee striding towards them. “Yes, I think I’ll go and find Mrs Ross,” he said quickly. “By the way, your coronet of wildflowers is very fetching. Purple heather is my favourite flower.” And off he hurried.
“Guess what?” Miss Dee addressed eagerly to the Countess. “A messenger just arrived from Duns with a handful of telegrams. Good news travels fast. I have just received multiple invitations to play tournaments in Cape Town, New York, South Carolina and Sydney. Isn’t that thrilling? I’m so excited. The world has really opened up for me.”
The Countess did not have the heart to spoil Catherine’s moment in the sun and gave her a sisterly hug.
“Carter is thrilled too!” Miss Dee continued to gush. “He is going to come with me to New York. He intends to find work on the stage. I never knew how desperately he wanted to be an actor. Everything has worked out so well. Oh, drat! Here comes the Rajah. I think he is going to ask you for a dance. I’m on cloud nine. I shall float off before he gets here!”
The Rajah did not ask the Countess to dance. He found the occidental passion for jigging just as absurd as the passion for spiceless meat for dinner and charred bread for breakfast.
“What do you think of the Govinda tiara?”
She gazed at the bride whirling across the dance floor, billowing rainbows under a coronet of stars. “Vraiment, c’est magnifique!”
Some dusky skin set off a row of lovely white teeth and a proud smile. “Yours on your wedding day - but for longer than one night. I sail tomorrow and the tiara sails with me. Let me know if you change your mind. My offer remains open. Come to India for a vacation. Bring Dr Watson. The doors of my palace likewise remain open. And to prove that not all of India is dry and dusty I will show you where tea is grown. I have a plantation in the hills. The setting will take your breath away.” He offered his arm. “Shall we take a turn on the terrace? It is a cloudless night and I am told the bonfires can be seen for miles and miles. You can tell to me the story of Mr Guido Fawkes.”
Maw Crag plateau provided the perfect vantage point for viewing the necklace of bonfires that flared across the land, and while she told him about the plot to blow up parliament she noticed two figures sprinting away from the castle - two carefree lovers, perhaps? And why not? It was a perfect night for l’amour!
“We also celebrate a Hindu festival on the fifth of November,” said the Rajah. “It is part of Diwali where sisters honour their brothers.”
India was sounding more and more magical but as he lifted her hand to his lips they heard an embarrassed cough from somewhere close. It was time for the Scottish reel.
The Countess left the Rajah on the terrace and re-entered the ballroom on the arm of Dr Watson and when she saw who was lined up for the reel she realized that the young lovers sprinting toward the abbey ruins could not have been Miss Lambert and Mr Ross as she had been quick to assume. Of course! The figures were exceedingly tall, and besides, they weren’t holding hands! It must have been Catherine and Carter Dee.
Dr Watson began explaining the rules of the reel “Always join a reel from the bottom. The angling of the shoulders indicates the direction -”
“Give me a moment,” she interrupted. “Let me watch for a bit and then I will have it.”
“That will never work,” he grumbled.
After a few moments she said, “Incline head, curtsey, travel in opposite direction, return, repeat, join hands, stamp, right, left, right, clap three times, advance, under arch, travel, repeat, 4, 8, 16, 32. It is all a matter of mathematics.”
And by golly she did have it!
A sumptuous wedding feast had been set up on trestle tables in the alabaster hall. Guests helped themselves to an array of hot and cold dishes then dispersed to find a seat. Some went outside to admire the bonfires, others drifted into the library. The formal rooms in the south wing had been locked up. Time was of the essence when the Countess cornered Lord Cruddock at the top of the stairs a short time later.
“I would like you to inform your wife and to put it about amongst the guests that the bride will be spending the wedding night in the husband’s bedchamber,” she stated, just like that.
Naturally, he took umbrage. “Tradition calls for the husband to go to the bride’s bedchamber and I will not be dictated to in my own home on my wedding night by -”
“If you want to know who stole the tiara you will cede to my request.”
He expelled a weighty exasperated breath. “What do you intend?”
“I don’t have time to explain the fullness of my plan,” she said, ignoring a strong whiff of whiskey, “but the real tiara will not be put at risk.”
“You guarantee this?”
“You have my word.”
“So the real tiara can be placed back in the priest’s hole in my study before we retire for the night?” he clarified to satisfy himself.
“No, your wife must leave it on her dressing table before she goes to your bedchamber.”
“Are you mad! I will not risk it!”
She had no choice but to stick her neck out. “Tomorrow morning I will reveal not only the name of the thief, I will reveal who murdered the three golfers and the caddy, and you will still have your tiara!”
Shocked, he drew back and almost toppled down the stairs. Several faces turned to look as he caught hold of the bannister to steady himself. “I hope to God you are telling the truth,” he hissed angrily as he commenced his descent, mumbling profanities.
Next, the Countess went to find Judge Cruddock. He was seated on a garden bench at the far end of the terrace, a glass of champagne in one hand and a mutton chop in the other. Nessie was under the bench gnawing on a bone. Unsurprisingly, he was without company.
“Entailzie,” she said as she plonked herself on the bench, guarding her ankles from the fangs being honed to sharpness. “You were about to explain the term to me yesterday.”
“Ah, dear Countess. Yes, yes, please join me,” he invited needlessly.
“Entailzie?” she prodded.
“It is a Scottish term for what is entailed…”
He was longwinded and most of it she already knew from her time in Devon solving the Baskerville case, but when he began to outline something called abeyance she was all ears.
19
The Plot Unravels
Some words are rarely used except in the negative. People are rarely described as couth or gruntled, merely uncouth and disgruntled. And a plan never ravels, it only unravels…
By ten o’clock almost everyone was in the breakfast room discussing the wedding in exalted tones when they were interrupted by a high-pitched scream. It came from the top of the stairs where the bride, wearing a transparent peignoir over a silky slip and looking like a beguiling ghost, was wailing like a demented banshee. It soon became clear that the tiara she had deposited on her dressing table prior to going to her husband’s bedchamber had disappeared during the night. Lord Cruddock turned purple with rage and was about to unleash the full force of his fury when the Countess directed a wink his way and the royal flush faded to a coral hue.
“What can this mean?” he blustered like a third rate actor strutting some provincial stage as he attempted to calm his unhappy bride – with Nessie nipping at his heels.
The sobbing bride danced around the little Scottie to avoid having her peignoir shredded. “Deal with it, Duncan!” she shouted at her husband of one night as she detached some French finery from Scottish fangs. “You will find me in my boudoir – I have a furious headache! And keep that rabid flea-bag away from me!”
“Miss Dee and
Mr Dee did not come down to breakfast,” muttered Judge Cruddock, sounding concerned and helpful at the same time, ignoring the trail of ripped lace and the insult to his dear little Scottie who was now weeing on a corner of the Persian carpet. “I don’t know if that is significant.”
“Let’s check their rooms, starting with the brother,” foamed the Viking uncouthly, striding forth to the bachelor’s wing like Harald Hardrader storming Stamford Bridge.
The Old Salt followed in his foamy wake, feeling bolder than Admiral Nelson at Trafalgar, as he aimed a cannon-ball kick at the little biter. “Call back yer doggie, Judge, or I will not be held responsible!”
“I have not seen my factotum all morning,” complained the Rajah in a disgruntled tone, but no one was paying attention except Nessie who was suddenly drawn to some bejewelled slippers like a mongoose to a cobra. “I had to complete my toilette unaided and was forced to dress - Ouch!”
“A breakfast tray to my room, Miss Lambert,” frothed Lady Moira as she stepped into a damp patch. “See to it at once! And keep this incontinent canine away from me!”
Dr Watson rushed off to check the bedroom of Miss Dee.
The Rajah followed hot on his heels before Nessie took a liking to his other slipper.
Judge Cruddock tried to coax Nessie away from the Chippendale she had taken a sudden fancy to as his lordship threw up his hands and withdrew to his sanctum.
Alone, the Countess returned to the breakfast room blithely unaware that the scene she had just witnessed was the beginning of the scarlet thread unravelling.
She had just poured herself a fresh cup of Darjeeling when Hamish and Thane entered through the French window. Hamish Ross was a hard-working young man of serious demeanour and this particular morning he was looking more preoccupied and more serious than usual.
“Can you tell me where I might find Lord Cruddock?” he asked without even offering a courteous good-morning.
“I think you will find him in his private study. Is everything all right? You look worried.”
