The Lammas Curse

by Anna Lord

  “How can you say that with certainty?” challenged Mr Larssensen. “They were probably burying it out by the abbey ruins when they were gored by the stag!”

  “That’s enough!” warned Mr MacDuff. “The next person to interrupt will be locked in the cellar until we have finished.” He turned to the Countess. “Please proceed.”

  “Perhaps we could have some morning tea,” suggested the Countess tactfully, sensing the pent-up emotions bubbling up like a stewpot about to boil over. “Most people missed breakfast. Rajah, if you would be so good as to summon the butler. You seem to be closest to the bell pull.”

  “No one is to leave the room,” warned MacDuff, aiming a meaningful glance at the doctor who was still standing guard nearest to the French window, his revolver at the ready.

  Everyone began perambulating the vast confines of the drawing room, talking in hushed tones the way tourists do in a museum, stiffly circumambulating the furniture, weaving in and out and roundabout. Someone spotted a Faberge enamelled etui and several people lit up a cigarette. The Rajah stoked the fire while Mr Bancoe helped himself to a dry sherry and offered one to the judge. MacBee kept her distance from her scowling sisters.

  Dr Watson stood alone in front of the French window, hands in his pockets, and gazed out across the links, thinking back to his first night at Cruddock Castle. He had felt honoured to be among such an illustrious and exotic crowd. Now he could barely bring himself to look at them. Was it old age? Or was it him? He felt disheartened with society, with people in general, with himself. He felt disappointed. Yes, that was it. The people he met were disappointing. The circle he moved in was perennially disappointing. Only one person had never disappointed him. Sherlock had always been true to himself – that good old Shakespearean line trotted out at valedictorian dinners and speech nights! He hoped to God the Countess knew what she was doing. He didn’t think he could stand to be disappointed any more than he already was.

  Mrs Ross and Mrs Ardkinglas dispensed the tea and coffee as soon as it arrived while Miss Lambert helped to serve slices of Dundee cake. Heated tempers had cooled and everyone retook their same seats in a calmer frame of mind.

  “As I was saying,” recommenced the Countess, replacing her empty teacup on a tray table, “the Dees did not steal the tiara - neither the real one nor the fake.”

  Anticipating a stream of disbelieving gasps, she paused for a moment. Someone checked a cry and several voices uttered stunned surprise but heeding Mr MacDuff’s earlier warning about sitting it out in the cellar no one voiced their thoughts audibly enough to be evicted. Lady Moira opened and closed her mouth like a puffer fish gasping for air, while the new Lady Cruddock fanned her flushed face with a black silk fan.

  “Yes, there were two tiaras,” the Countess confirmed in answer to the unasked question that sat on everyone’s lips. “The real tiara was sold to the Rajah to pay off his lordship’s gambling debts. And though his lordship is now dead and cannot confirm as much, the Rajah has the deed of sale to prove it. I saw the deed on the desk in his cabin when I spent the night on his ship. The Lammas tiara, originally called the Govinda tiara, was once the property of the Rajah’s family and purloined by Colonel Fotheringay during the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857 before passing into the hands of Lord Cruddock. A substitute tiara was crafted to fool the dowager and the present Lady Cruddock. However, it must be said, Lord Cruddock loved his wife dearly and wanted her to wear the real tiara on her wedding day. The Rajah agreed to the delay of sale for that reason.”

  “That doesn’t explain where the tiaras are at present,” rasped Lady Moira.

  “I’m getting to that,” replied the Countess. “As soon as I realized there were two tiaras the first robbery became much clearer, that is to say, the criminal field narrowed considerably. The thief did not know he had stolen the fake tiara but the Rajah and his lordship did know it. The real tiara was kept in the priest’s hole in his lordship’s study. I deduced where the fake tiara had been hidden after it had been stolen and stole it back from the thief and wore it on the wedding night, concealed beneath ivy and heather. I convinced his lordship to instruct his wife to leave the real tiara in her bedroom on the wedding night and to spend the night in his bedchamber. Lady Cruddock did as instructed and I thank her sincerely. During the night I was able to slip into her room and substitute the fake tiara for the real one. Consequently, the person who stole the tiara from her room has the fake one and I have the real one in my possession which I will give to the Rajah when we are done.”

  “So who stole the fake tiara?” hazarded Mr Larssensen, momentarily forgetting himself, feeling slightly confused about there being two tiaras.

  “There were two thefts of the fake tiara. The first theft of the fake tiara from the library I will explain shortly. The most recent theft, the one last night, was perpetrated by a person who was observed in the act by my manservant who had concealed himself in the room at the time. It was Mr Chandrapur.”

  “The jackal!” shouted the Rajah furiously, knocking a Dresden statuette from the mantel and catching it before it hit the floor. “I will have him flogged and crushed by an elephant!”

  “I don’t think you need go that far,” said the Countess matter-of-factly. “When you return with the real tiara and everyone realizes he has the fake, he will be rendered powerless. Peace will be restored not by violence and vengeance but by humility and mercy. The man who holds the talisman – remember?”

  “So who stole the fake tiara from the library?” pressed Mr Larssensen, catching up.

  “Be patient,” warned MacDuff. “All will be revealed in good time.”

  “The person who stole the fake tiara from the library is here with us in this room,” continued the Countess, proceeding more confidently now that she had managed to reach thus far without things coming to blows. “Several clues alerted me to the thief. Firstly, a fleck of white fluff on the sleeve of Dr Watson’s jacket as he searched for clues. Secondly, a person who had somewhere to conceal the tiara after he stole it, should he bump into a fellow guest during his midnight meandering. Thirdly, the hiding spot - an ingenious spot that flashed to mind after I saw the oil painting in Lord Cruddock’s study and noted the level rows of chimney stacks. Fourthly, someone who arrived late for the first rehearsal because they had been busy searching Miss O’Hara’s dressing-room.”

  Several people squirmed in their seats; some drew themselves up with dignity lest they be accused; others glanced contemptuously at those they thought guilty. The Countess eyed each person before bringing her gaze circling back to her own hands and counting on her fingers.

  “One - the piece of fluff was from a pompom. Two - the place of concealment was a silly old hat. Three - the hiding place was the bottom of a golf bag that had been fitted with a secret compartment a mere two inches high, not easy to spot unless you saw a number of golf bags lined up together and saw that one bag was slightly taller and the clubs slightly higher than all the others. And four - the person who came late to rehearsal: Mr Bancoe!”

  “It’s a lie!” he shouted, leaping to his feet and spilling sherry all over himself. “You cannot prove a thing! I have a compartment in my golf bag for storing a flask of whiskey. You can check it!”

  “Desist, Mr Bancoe,” warned MacDuff, noting the soggy crotch, “clean yourself up and sit back down unless you wish to be clapped in handcuffs here and now. I can confirm the Yard has suspected Mr Bancoe of theft for more than twelve months. Valuable items have disappeared wherever he has played golf. But we were baffled as to how he always managed to get through even the most stringent search. I thank the Countess for alerting us to the secret compartment in his bag. Pray continue, Countess Volodymyrovna.”

  “Who killed my husband?” snapped the new Lady Cruddock. “Can you answer me that?”

  “It was that lying, thieving, self-righteous hypocrite!” accused Mr Larssensen, disdaining sporting ties and pointing an accusing finger at his ex-golfing partner. “Lecturing us on morality and
séances and pretending to care for his ailing mother!”

  Mr Bancoe turned brick red. “You were the one bedding his bride behind his back!” he gurgled angrily. “Better a liar and a thief than a cad and a fornicator!”

  “I’m sorry to say I think it had to be my factotum,” interrupted the Rajah gravely, continuing to finger the ceremonial dagger strapped to his side. “Though I cannot understand why he did not use his own dagger. It was his calling card.”

  “Pipe down – all of you!” shouted MacDuff. “I have been enjoying this immensely and I would like to hear what else the Countess has to say. By the by, my money is on the Dees.”

  The Countess dispensed a sympathetic smile the inspector’s way. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Inspector MacDuff, but it was not the Dees. Driven by hubris a deux they committed four murders but they did not kill Lord Cruddock. I saw them sprinting toward the abbey ruins last night while I was on the terrace with Judge Cruddock. I’d wager their bodies were damp with dew and their clothing stiff with frost this morning. Is that correct Mr Ross?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed with a firm nod of his head. “The blood around the wounds had congealed too. They had already been dead several hours when I came across their bodies. Though I cannot fathom about the abature,” he said, scratching his head and frowning.

  “Thank you, Mr Ross,” said the Countess with brisk courtesy, “but nature is sometimes unfathomable. We can conclude the Dees were killed last night and could not have killed their god-father this morning. They were killed by a stag just as Mr Ross surmised. I can confirm seeing a large stag by Fickle Beck a few days ago. It was most likely the same animal. Their deaths were a tragedy of nature. It is unfortunate they cannot stand trial for the four murders but they have forfeited their lives and that must suffice.”

  “So it was Mr Chandrapur after all?” mumbled the inspector when professional speculation finally caught up to the facts at hand.

  “No, it was not Mr Chandrapur,” contradicted the Countess with greater confidence. “My manservant watched him flee last night. He will be half way to the coast with the fake tiara by now. We need not concern ourselves with him any longer. Though I would like to thank the Rajah for the term he employed. The murderer of Lord Cruddock did leave a distinctive calling card in the form of a weapon – a bodkin - which tells us that his lordship was murdered not by a man but a woman.”

  The Countess paused while the ladies in the room fanned their flushed faces and grasped at their empty teacups in the hope of moistening parched lips. MacBee was the only one who was actually smiling - a wry, knowing, witchy smile. A row of yellowed teeth that had rarely seen the light of day in twenty years glinted against craggy skin that had long ago been drained of youthful dew and a healthy shine.

  “Several women had good reason to kill Lord Cruddock,” said the Countess. “His new wife, first and foremost, so that she could be with her lover -”

  “How dare you accuse -”

  “Shut-up!” commanded the inspector, silencing Mr Larssensen before he could get any further with his objection.

  “As I was saying, several women had good reason to kill Lord Cruddock. The new Lady Cruddock was not alone in wishing his lordship dead. There is also Mrs Ross who we know does basket-weaving and thus has access to bodkins.”

  “Everyone has access to bodkins,” returned Mrs Ross coldly.

  ‘Yes,” agreed the Countess, “but not everyone fathered a child by the old lord and was then cast aside. Someone whose child is just as legitimate as the recently deceased Lord Cruddock. Someone who may have been harbouring hate for decades on behalf of her son, or on behalf of her sister - who was made poor while the so-called rightful heir gambled away the family fortune. But of course, you did not kill him because you were not here at the time, nor was your sister, Mrs Ardkinglas. We know that because Horace delivered you both here in the landau and can vouch for your whereabouts this morning, which in fact he did when I questioned him earlier.”

  “I thought you were about to accuse me next!” bleated Mrs Ardkinglas sounding immensely relieved.

  “No, it was not you, nor was it the third sister who was watching over the bodies of the Dees at the time. It had to be one of the women inside the castle. Discounting myself, that leaves her ladyship, Miss Lambert and Lady Moira.”

  All eyes returned to the ravishing widow who had turned deathly pale and who could no longer fan her face because her hand was shaking uncontrollably.

  “Whatever is impossible must be discounted and whatever is left, no matter how improbable…I believe the mantra goes. The new Lady Cruddock was wearing a peignoir when we saw her on the landing this morning. Her maid showed me the same peignoir later that morning and it was not covered in blood. She only had one wedding night peignoir of that style. Furthermore, I know it was the same one because it had a slight rip along the lacy hem where Nessie had caught it in her teeth this morning. My maid can also confirm her ladyship’s maid was with her ladyship in her room all morning. Impossible and improbable - it was not Lady Cruddock.”

  At this point her ladyship fainted and had to be revived with smelling salts that Dr Watson administered from his medical bag. Her lover stroked her hair while she rested her head on his shoulder and made pathetic little mewling sounds.

  “That just leaves Miss Lambert and Lady Moira.”

  All eyes turned to the two ladies seated side by side on the settee. Miss Lambert was torturing her handkerchief in silence while Lady Moira was staring proudly and sternly at her accuser.

  “I know that Lady Moira recently bought five bodkins,” continued the Countess in a carefully orchestrated monotone, meeting the seigneurial gaze with orchestrated equanimity. “I know that she gave three to Mrs Ross, possibly to incriminate her.”

  “You bitch!” spat Mrs Ross viciously, snatching up the nearest ornament at hand.

  “Settle down! Settle down!” warned the inspector. “And return that nice thingummybob back to where it came from.”

  The Countess waited for Mrs Ross to replace the priceless Ming bowl. “I know that Lady Moira was growing ever more frustrated with her son for his drinking, his gambling and his choice of wife. She knew his heir would be illegitimate just as the heir she had produced had been illegitimate. I suggest that Lady Moira went to the study to speak to her son. An argument erupted whereby he may have lashed out at his mother and she, defending herself, reached for the bodkin in her embroidery bag and killed him in a moment of desperation akin to emotional insanity. I notice Lady Moira is wearing a different dress to the one she had on this morning when we saw her on the landing. I suggest we will find hidden in her bedroom a dress splattered with blood. Is that correct, Lady Moira?”

  Lady Moira continued to meet the Countess’s gaze courageously, proudly and unflinchingly. “Who would have thought my son to have so much blood in him,” she replied with flippancy, recalling a line from the nameless play. “You have left out just one point, Countess Volodymyrovna, an important point which I believe you know to be vital for providing a motive. I will elaborate, if you will allow me to soliloquize?”

  “Certainly,” conceded the Countess graciously, smiling an inscrutable smile that hinted at something underhand and which did not ring true for such a brutally honest moment. Neither woman dropped her gaze. It was a poignant moment, uncontrived and yet false at the same time.

  Dr Watson wondered if he was the only one who noticed how the Countess’s smile rang false and how her demeanour altered subtly during that brief exchange. The others did not know her well enough, he told himself. But he did. Something was not quite right but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Lady Moira had all but confessed. This was the Countess’s moment of triumph - she had her thieves and murderers – so what was wrong?

  “Three years ago,” began Lady Moira, breathing heavily, as though each word cost an effort, “MacBee came to me and told me of an abeyance hanging over the Cruddock estate. She showed me a family tree she and her sisters
had traced back to the last witch of the borders, Alice Mawson, who was convicted of witchcraft and exiled 100 years ago yesterday.”

  “I have a copy of the family tree here,” croaked MacBee, reaching inside her cloak and whipping out a piece of paper with a complex design on it, the same drawing that Mrs Ross had been careful to conceal from the Countess, which was now handed to the inspector.

  Not a map at all!

  “During my frequent trips to Edinburgh to treat the cancer of the throat and lungs which will soon claim my life,” wheezed Lady Moira between stertorous breaths, “I made further enquiries. I followed up the family tree they had drawn up. I instructed solicitors to verify marriage, birth and death certificates and so forth. I even double-checked the relevant archives personally. It appeared MacBee was right. The fifth of November 1899 was the last day that the true heir could claim their birthright. I consulted my late-husband’s cousin, Judge Cruddock. He drew up a petition of claim. The true heir signed the petition, not quite knowing what they were signing, all still perfectly legal, and the petition for termination of the abeyance was lodged. Judge Cruddock arrived the day before the wedding to tell me the petition had been successful. The Cruddock estate - including Cruddock Castle and all rights, appurtenances, chattels, and so forth that go with it - belongs to the sole remaining heir of Alice Mawson who was condemned by an unscrupulous judge, aided and abetted by witch-finders motivated by spite and malice and personal gain.”

  “Who is it?” screamed Lady Cruddock; sounding like a banshee who had just foreseen her own ghastly demise.

  “It is Miss Lambert,” rasped Lady Moira, exhaling with relief. “She is the rightful heir. I employed her as my paid companion several years ago so as not to lose sight of her while everything was being verified. The laws of the land grind slowly. But after 100 years they have finally come full circle and justice has been served at long last.”

  Miss Lambert resembled a young actress suddenly thrust into the limelight, the star of the show paralysed with stage-fright.