by Anna Lord
“You may as well know. You will learn it soon enough. The Dees are dead. I just came across their bodies at the abbey ruin -”
The Countess caught back a gasp and almost spilled hot tea down the front of her silk tartan day dress. “Did they jump from the parapet? Was it suicide?”
“No, no, it was not suicide – thank God for that because I have not yet had the stairs dismantled – no, no, they have been gored by a stag.”
“A stag!”
“Yes, I can hardly believe it myself. It is vexing. There is no abature.”
“Abature?”
“No trampling of grass, no hoof prints, no sign that any stag has been there at all and yet they have the wounds to prove it, though…” He stopped abruptly and his brows furrowed.
“You were saying?”
“Stags are extremely tall. I have only ever come across three deaths caused by stags and the men were all gored in the throat. The Dees were gored in the stomach. The only thing I can think to explain it would be if they were standing on the stones but then I cannot imagine a stag charging up the stones. But there it is. I left MacBee to watch the bodies while I hurried here to inform Lord Cruddock.”
“MacBee was with you when you found the bodies?”
He had reached the door and paused abruptly. “No, no, she arrived a few moments later. She was out gathering herbs and wildflowers.”
“Is she…is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine,” he dismissed quickly, indicating he was not privy to the family secret. “I asked her to watch over the bodies. I thought Dr Watson might want to take a look and I didn’t want anyone else to interfere with the bodies in the meantime. I better let his lordship know. Stay here, boy!” he directed at his loyal companion as he pulled open the door and scanned the hall. “Can you keep an eye on Thane? I don’t want Nessie taking another snap at him. The wound she inflicted during her last visit took months to heal. Put him out if he bothers you. I won’t be long.”
The Countess tossed Thane several rashers of crispy bacon before following after Hamish. She wanted to hear what his lordship would make of the deaths of his god-children. And it was just as well she did. Lord Cruddock was sprawled on his back across his desk, lying in a warm sticky pool of blood which was oozing from a deep wound to his neck and dripping onto the floor, soaking into a tartan rug. He had been stabbed in the throat with a sharp weapon and the attack had happened recently, the body and the blood were still warm.
The tidy state of the room led them to believe no violent struggle had taken place. Lord Cruddock must have been taken by surprise by someone standing at the door, someone who lashed out, stabbed him in the throat, and caused him to fall backwards onto his desk. There were splatters of blood everywhere, including a large red splotch on the oil painting by Septimus Decimus Cox behind the desk. Blood must have spurted from the carotid artery like a fountain in full flow. Hamish Ross looked closely at the weapon sticking out of the side of his lordship’s neck and his body stiffened.
“It is not a dagger I see before me,” he said, his voice thick and clotted.
The Countess had already noted the smooth wooden handle of the weapon. She was familiar with the rounded shape that fit comfortably into the palm of a lady’s hand. “It is a bodkin,” she said. “The type used for basket-weaving. The blade will be 5 inches in length.”
The significance of the weapon was not lost on either of them.
Male voices filtered up the spiral stairs. The men had apparently finished searching the bedrooms of the Dees and had met up at the top of the landing. The dry throaty rumble of Mr Bancoe came first.
“Mr Dee’s bed has not been slept in.”
Dr Watson’s modulated tone came next. “Neither has Miss Dee’s bed been disturbed.”
“They have fled with the tiara!” thundered the Viking. “The security here is laughable! Lord Cruddock is a drunken fool! His wife’s safety, not his next dram, should be his prime concern!”
The voice of reason did little to calm the Viking. “I admit it looks bad for the Dees,” said the doctor. “Lord Cruddock needs to instigate a thorough search before they get too far - the sooner the better.”
“Where on earth is my factotum?” mumbled the Rajah, deftly avoiding the damp patch on the Persian rug, but no one was listening.
“Where on earth is Lord Cruddock?” growled the Viking.
“His lordship is in his study,” replied the Countess calmly, materializing at the base of the spiral stairs, Hamish at her back, “but I’m afraid he won’t be organizing a search, nor will it be necessary. He is dead and so are the Dees.”
No one spoke for several moments. The news took a while to sink in and even then each man insisted on taking a brief look into the study, navigating the narrow spiral stairs one after another to confirm the grim reality for himself. By the time they had all re-marshalled on the landing, shell-shocked by the sight of so much blood and baffled by the choice of weapon and totally confounded by the inexplicable death of the Dees by a stag, the Countess who had the clearest grasp of all that had transpired for reasons that would soon become clear to all, and who had had the most amount of time to think about the whys and wherefores and the whereto now, took charge before anyone else had the wherewithal to do so.
Three years of marriage to a dynamic man had taught her that men were creatures of action. Moreover, they were accustomed to following orders if those orders were delivered with a voice of authority. Following-through on a mission was something they instinctively understood, especially if that mission had a solid rather than an abstract outcome. She spoke directly and authoritatively, addressing each man one after the other, tasking them with something that would contribute to that outcome – namely unmasking the thief and the murderer. They were to assemble in the drawing room at midday.
“Mr Bancoe, please inform my coachman, Horace, to fetch Mrs Ross, Mrs Ardkinglas and Mr MacDuff and bring here forthwith.”
“Mr Ross, please return to the abbey ruins with some strong men and bring back the bodies of Miss Dee and Mr Dee, and make sure to bring MacBee back with you, even if you have to carry her yourself, kicking and screaming.”
“Mr Larssensen, please inform her ladyship of the death of her husband and his two god-children and see to it that she is in the drawing room at noon minus any histrionics.”
“Rajah, if you would please locate the judge and inform him we are meeting in the drawing room at midday. I think you might find him in the garden walking his dog. I spotted him through the study window heading toward the loch.”
“What about my factotum?” the Rajah mumbled as he shuffled his feet. “I fear things don’t look good for him. Though I cannot understand why he did not use, er, never mind.”
“Don’t worry about your factotum,” she dismissed. “I know where he is. I will explain his whereabouts to you when we re-assemble.”
Dr Watson waited for the others to leave. “I’ll go back to the study and examine the scene for clues.”
“Don’t bother with that,” she returned briskly. “I know who killed Lord Cruddock. You need to inform Lady Moira and Miss Lambert of his death, plus that of the Dees. Your calm bedside manner will act better than any panacea, but you had better take your medical bag just in case. Make sure they understand they need to be in the drawing room for twelve o’clock sharp.”
“You know who stole the tiara and who the murderer is?” he called after her as she sprinted down the stairs, his voice incredulous and mystified.
“Yes,” she called back over her shoulder.
“Where are you going now?”
“To finish my breakfast!”
20
The Suspects Assemble
“This is most unorthodox,” mumbled Dr Watson morosely as he and the Countess waited for the others to arrive in the drawing room. He couldn’t help feeling his counterpart was staging a drama to rival the Scottish play in order to demonstrate her cleverness. She had changed into a dramat
ic silk tussore day dress featuring bold ecossaise-style check patterning. But her vanity might yet be her undoing. It could all go horribly wrong and backfire like one of those fireworks that suddenly explode without warning causing terrible injuries to those in the vicinity. Did she really know who stole the tiara? Could she truly say who killed Lord Cruddock after such a cursory inspection of the murder scene? And gathering all the suspects together to unmask the culprit or culprits! It was an invitation to a disaster that might put innocent lives at risk!
“Sherlock would not have gone in for this sort of melodrama,” the doctor pointed out bluntly, agitated and restless now, checking the time on his pocket watch as he paced up and down beneath a plethora of fan-vaulting, blind to the architectural magnificence and the fabulous bibelots that had once held him spellbound. “If you know who the thief and the murderer are why not just have them locked up until Scotland Yard arrive. A detective inspector should be here any time soon. I cannot imagine what has delayed him,” he finished irritably, glancing once more at his watch.
It was ten minutes before twelve.
“Oh, do sit down,” she rebuked tetchily. “You are wearing out the Aubusson! I need to think and you are distracting me with your carping.”
Good grief! That comment did not bode well! She was about to stage a play for which she had not even prepared a script. This gathering had all the hallmarks of a Shakespearean tragedy with her starring in the lead role and he forced into the role of luckless Falstaff. He was about to turn on his heel when the door flew open and the first of the dramatis personae made their entrance and he knew it was too late to cancel the performance.
Judge Cruddock and Nessie were the first to arrive. They entered via the dining room. The judge parked himself on a fauteuil by the Louis Quatorze bureau plat, Nessie on his lap, where she could cast a doggy eye over proceedings and size up the sport to be had.
Mrs Ross, Mrs Ardkinglas and Mr MacDuff came next through the door leading from the alabaster entrance hall. They found Chippendale chairs positioned around the edges of the room and selected those which they deemed least conspicuous.
Mr Bancoe shambled in a few moments later using the same door as the judge. He found an armchair angled near to the sideboard on which sat some decanters of sweet and dry sherry.
Lady Moira, Miss Lambert and the Rajah of Govinda arrived together. The two ladies chose the settee by the fireplace. The Rajah chose to stand by the elaborate gothic mantel, one hand resting on the carved ledge, the other touching on his ceremonial dagger.
Through the French window came Hamish Ross with a reluctant MacBee in tow, glowering and cursing. Nessie took one look at Thane, guarding the terrace, and launched herself at the glass, barking ferociously. Someone opened the French window and out she burst as if she had a fire-cracker tied to her tail, chasing after the Gordon setter who took off like the wind. The brief explosion sets hearts thrumming but was quickly forgotten when in sashayed the new Lady Cruddock, stunning in black satin and a triple-stranded pearl choker, leaning heavily on the arm of her illicit paramour, Mr Larssensen. They sat together on the settee vis-à-vis Lady Moira and Miss Lambert, as if to directly challenge the old order.
Dr Watson closed the double doors and positioned himself discretely in an alcove by the French window, one hand in his pocket, nervously fingering his service revolver.
No one spoke. All understood the gravitas of the gathering. This was not a social occasion. Each person waited silently for the scene to run through the obligatory script and hopefully end without too much drama.
It was two minutes after twelve.
“Thank you for being prompt,” said the Countess, who had been hanging back in the wings, rehearsing in her head how best to phrase things once she took the floor. “In the absence of Scotland Yard I have taken it upon myself to unmask the thieves and murderers in our midst and I would like to thank you for your co-operation.”
Co-operation had nothing to do with it. They had no choice in the matter. Failing to turn up would have placed them front and centre under a guilty spotlight.
“Scotland Yard is here,” contradicted Mr MacDuff with throaty tonality, pushing to his feet. “I am Detective Inspector MacDuff.” He waited for the gasps of dismay to subside. “But since the Countess has called this meeting and has taken the floor I will allow her to continue. I have taken just one liberty, a precaution as befits my occupation. Footmen have been posted outside each exit should anyone choose to flee before we are done.” Graciously, he bowed his head and gestured for her to go on, ignoring the chorus of disgruntlement that rippled around the drawing room like the softly threatening rumble of distant thunder.
As dismayed as the others, the Countess nevertheless composed herself and acknowledged the Detective Inspector with an equally gracious nod of her head.
“I do not intend to drag matters out. I will deal with the four murders first. I refer to the three golfers and the caddy. I thank Dr Watson at this point for his carefully drawn conclusion, a conclusion many others may also have reached, namely, that the golfing murders were committed by Miss Dee and Mr Dee who were able to assume the guise of each other and thus provide for themselves convincing alibis. We can reasonably assume the first golfer, the world champion, was eliminated from the contest to increase the chance of the Dees winning. However, I suggest that the following two murders were committed for the sake of publicity which many here have pointed out as being of paramount importance to the success of the tournament. I can personally attest that by the time the three golfers had been killed every publication in the land, from The Times to The Penny Weekly, featured an article about the Lammermoor Golf Tournament. There was not a single person who perused a newspaper who would not have heard of the Lammermoor Golf Club. Human nature being what it is - bad publicity is as effective as good publicity when it comes to promoting a new venture and the power of publicity cannot be underestimated.”
“What about those witchy things – the corn dolly and such like?” blurted Mr Bancoe, briefly turning his gaze away from the tantalizing decanters winking on the sideboard. “I say the murders were done by witches!”
“Please don’t interrupt,” reprimanded the Countess somewhat frostily. “I will answer any questions at the end if anything remains unclear. As for the Wicca symbols - I suggest they were placed at the scene by the Dees to point the finger at Mother MacBee.”
She knew full well this was a lie but a forthright tone is always convincing.
MacBee was suddenly thrust into the spotlight. She stood her ground and stared unblinkingly from under the hood of her Black Watch tartan, fixing each gazer with the evil eye - lips pressed tight, as if the top and bottom had been sewn together with needle and thread.
“The fourth death,” continued the Countess, bringing the spotlight back to herself, mightily relieved that MacBee chose not to contradict her, “namely that of Mr Brown, was also committed by the Dees. We can assume with reasonable certainty that Mr Brown was blackmailing someone because Mrs Ardkinglas saw a note he had written implying as much. We can also assume he was waiting to meet someone in the kitchen courtyard at the time he died, as he had been there for some time, smoking cigarettes, yet it was not a place he would normally have gone for a smoke. The kitchen staff happened to be absent on that particular day making it a good place to meet without being observed. We also know he had confided in Mr MacDuff that he had just had a turn of luck that would see him right – indicating he was expecting some money to come his way. From that we can infer with some certainty that he was blackmailing the Dees.”
MacDuff confirmed her summation with a nod of his head.
Apart from the Countess, no one noticed the dark look Mrs Ardkinglas flashed her hooded sister for the part she may have played regarding the details of such an inference being reached by the speaker. They were all fidgeting with buttons, brooches, bracelets, handkerchiefs and cuff-links, or nervously knitting their fingers together, over and under, in and out. Some
had chosen to shove their hands in their pockets to avoid giving way to tell-tale nerves.
The Countess had been standing in front of the carved stone mantelpiece with its distinctive gothic design but now paced slowly to the large gothic window where daylight came flooding in behind her, enabling her to better scrutinise the occupants of the room.
“Let me explain further pertaining to this murder. I believe someone borrowed a costume from the Scottish play to disguise themselves before stealing across to the Marmion Hydro Hotel to kill Mr Brown with the intent of putting an end to any chance of blackmail. The most likely candidate was Carter Dee. A person of his stature and fitting his description wearing a tartan costume from the play was spotted twice during the same day that the caddy was murdered. He was spotted going towards and then away from the hotel by the woodchopper, Ned Dawes, who assumed the man was a poacher because of his furtiveness.”
“The killer must have killed my husband too!” cried her ladyship, mopping faux tears.
“I will get to the death of Lord Cruddock in a moment,” responded the Countess.
“The Dees must have stolen the tiara as well!” flared the Viking, patting his beloved’s hand.
“Perhaps the tiara was stolen by you and your lover!” hissed Lady Moira.
“How dare you!” screeched the new Lady Cruddock, sounding not a bit sonorous. “When this is over I’ll throw you out once and for all! You will never cross the threshold again, you bitter old hag!”
“Calm down! Calm down!” attempted the judge, making it sound like: Order! Order!
“You said you would reveal the whereabouts of my factotum,” persisted the Rajah, fingering the jewelled hilt of his dagger.
“I will reveal all in due course,” sighed the Countess, trying to be heard above the constant stream of mutterings and the impassioned interruptions that were derailing her train of thought. “The Dees did not steal the tiara because -”
