The Lammas Curse

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The Lammas Curse Page 27

by Anna Lord


  Hamish Ross kept shaking his head. He was having difficulty accepting that the young woman he loved and planned to marry was suddenly heir to the estate where he toiled as a ghillie. All his matrimonial dreams were crumbling to dust before his eyes.

  Dr Watson stood with mouth agape, staring at his wife’s niece in astonishment before transferring his gaze to the Countess. She might not always be the most beautiful woman in a room but she would always be the most intelligent. And while beauty will always fade, her brains would never fail to bewitch. That was the essence of witchcraft – the wise woman.

  “I can confirm all that Lady Moira just disclosed,” stated Judge Cruddock, taking up the story. “When Alice Mawson was forced into exile one hundred years ago by old Judge Cruddock, my namesake, he simply took over her estate - no deed of sale was ever recorded. He also deigned to call himself Lord Cruddock though no peerage was ever granted. Hence, the title and estate remained entailed according to Scottish rules of inheritance, in this case ‘heirs whatsoever’, meaning a female can inherit. No claim was made on the estate for 99 years and had it not been made prior to the 5th of November 1899 the abeyant title would have ceased to exist according to the law of the land. Cruddock Castle is in fact Lammas Castle Farm. It belongs to the heir of the barony of Lammas. I have all relevant legal documentation in my possession. Miss Lambert, in reality Lady Adeline Mawson, Baroness of Lammas, was informed of her birthright just after that contretemps on the stairs this morning when the tiara went missing.”

  The young lady continued to sit like a marble statue in a museum.

  “So you see,” croaked Lady Moira, gathering breath to speak, “when I spoke to my son about the termination of the abeyance this morning he flew into a rage and tried to silence me by killing me. I used the bodkin which I happened to have in my embroidery bag and stabbed him in the neck as he came around the desk armed with a letter opener.”

  “No! No!” wailed the dispossessed Lady Cruddock, overcome by a surge of violent despair as the ghastly truth hit home. “It cannot be true! It is a lie! A trick! A falsehood! Noooo!”

  “It’s all right, darling,” soothed her lover, patting her glorious hair. “We will escape this mad, murderous, evil place. It is cursed – the castle, the land, the links – all of it! Let’s pack our bags and go as fast as we can away from here before it casts a curse on our child!”

  “Yes! Yes!” she sobbed, wide-eyed and frightened at the prospect of unseen evil afflicting her unborn child. “But I will take my jewels! They cannot take my jewels!”

  Together the pair rushed from the room.

  Hamish Ross fled out the French window.

  The statue came to life and chased after him.

  Mr Bancoe tried to flee too but was collared by the long arm of the law.

  21

  The Lammas Curse

  “It was about witchcraft after all,” sighed the Countess.

  “It was about the golf too,” Dr Watson reminded, wondering at the lack of triumph in her tone as he gazed across the undulating greens to where Lady Mawson had finally caught up to Mr Ross and Nessie had finally caught up to Thane – both males having slowed themselves down somewhat deliberately. “Not to mention the tiara.”

  Together, they walked to the end of the terrace without speaking.

  “What about those birds at the window during the second séance?” he said, turning and gazing up at the battlements. “I suspect you had something to do with that theatrical apparition?”

  She considered denying it but in the end nodded sheepishly. “I thought a séance might flush out our thief. First, I had Xenia and Fedir search the golf bags in the pavilion. When they found the fake tiara in Mr Bancoe’s bag, as I expected they would, I thought a few tricks involving origami birds dangling from fishing line tied to golf clubs might prompt a confession but I’m afraid it fizzled out rather badly - the same with the dangling tiara!”

  He hid his smile behind his hand. “The night was not a total loss. Lady Moira predicted the death of her son and discounting supernatural forces she would know because she would commit the murder. The prediction she made about the double-double death was obvious too. Everyone knew the Dees were guilty. A pity they cannot be brought to justice. Death by stag – who would have thought it! Still, you handled it well back there. I was worried you might, well, over play your hand but you did not disappoint. Sherlock would have been proud.”

  “So you finally admit I am my father’s daughter?”

  “Not at all,” he denied strenuously, biting his tongue. “I meant: Sherlock would have been proud to observe such perfect deductive reasoning from one so young.”

  A surge of emotion welled up as she fought to steady her voice. “When will you trust me enough to take me into your confidence? When will you desist with the delusion my father died at Reichenbach Falls then three years later came back to life though no one who knew him personally has actually seen him with their own eyes, and yet articles appear regularly in the newspapers of cases he has solved and witnesses swear to seeing the great detective out and about in London, and you publish yet more chronicles of mysteries solved and cases closed as if they happened yesterday, when you are merely re-hashing old exploits, and you display his keepsakes in your sitting room, not as mementoes mori but to delude visitors, because it is clear to me he does not live there anymore! Why does Mycroft refuse to meet with me? Why are you keeping the truth from me? What are you hiding? What don’t you want me to know? Tell me, Dr Watson, where is my father? Where is the real Sherlock Holmes?”

  Incensed, she didn’t even wait for him to reply but pirouetted on her heel and left him stupefied, secure in his self-deluded certainty, afraid of the truth, stuck in the past, incapable of stepping into the future though it was staring him in the face and he was standing on the cusp of a new dawn, a new century, a new way of living, being, doing, seeing, knowing…

  Lady Moira had been confined by Detective Inspector MacDuff to her own bedroom until her transfer to Edinburgh gaol could be arranged – though that event was looking extremely unlikely considering the number of opium twists on her bedside table.

  “That was an excellent performance you gave,” complimented the Countess after making sure the dowager was alone.

  “Likewise,” returned Lady Moira pleasantly.

  “Would you mind giving me the fifth bodkin?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “So that I can slip it into Lady Adeline’s embroidery bag to replace the one that is missing, since several people are aware she carries one about with her, while you don’t actually have an embroidery bag and even if you did it is unlikely a lady of your rank would have taken it with her while going to speak to her son in his private study about a matter as crucial as abeyance, whereas a paid companion who is obliged to carry numerous items for her employer at all times would.”

  “Ah, yes, it is fortunate men don’t notice details like that. It is the little things that often trip one up in these matters. It would not do for Miss Lambert’s bodkin to be unaccounted for.” Lady Moira fished the fifth bodkin out from the pocket of her cloak. “I don’t know how to thank you. Will you accept a small token of appreciation - a thistle brooch to remind you of Scotland - solid silver with amethysts for the thistle flowers? It is my favourite piece, not the most valuable, but the one I cherish the most. I have a second one, very similar, would you be so good as to deliver it to my dear friend, Madame Moghra. She is currently staying in York. I promised to attend one of her shows, but it looks as though I will be unable to stay true to my word after all.”

  “Is she starring in one of the York Mystery Pageants?”

  “No, she is a Spiritualist - the best medium in all of Britain, possibly the world.”

  The Countess thanked Lady Moira for the brooch and turned to go then whirled back. “Will you tell me what really took place in the study?”

  The old lady sighed heavily and fell weakly into an armchair. “It is as I described earl
ier but instead of me it was Miss Lambert who confronted my son in his study – I use the name for the last time. I walked in as he was rounding the desk armed with a letter opener, a murderous glint in his eyes such as I have never before witnessed. He would have murdered her had my sudden arrival not distracted him and stayed his momentum. Struggle would have been futile. He was much stronger than both of us combined. In the blink of an eye she whipped out the bodkin and stabbed him in the neck. It was an instinctive act of self-defence. She was protecting me too. Fortunately most of the blood spurted the other way. Afterwards, I helped her to clean herself up and change her dress. I also changed my own gown, which you cleverly pointed out to everyone – thank you for not mentioning her change of garment - and convinced her that it was better for me to take responsibility as my days were numbered and it was only fitting she allow me to atone for 100 years of wrong before I passed to the Otherside. She was numb with shock and acquiesced before she had a chance to think about any repercussions. I think it best she not know we had this conversation.”

  The Countess agreed. “It is just as well men don’t notice minor details like the clothes of a paid companion and that her ladyship is too narcissistic to notice the clothes of anyone but herself. It has been a pleasure and a privilege to know you, Lady Moira.”

  “Likewise, dear Countess. By the way, you are a perfect partner for Dr Watson - and I don’t mean matrimonially. I met Mr Sherlock Holmes once. You bear an uncanny resemblance to the great detective. His one failing was that he viewed crime as a conundrum to be solved, pure and simple. It is just as well he has retired to the countryside since that terrible incident in Switzerland, bee-keeping, I hear. With Dr Watson, crime and punishment is about justice, and in this instance justice will be served – a life for a life. Bless him, but he sees the world in black and white, good and bad, right and wrong. But to you, perhaps because you are a woman - crime and punishment is about injustice.”

  Dusk was purpling the Borders with broad strokes by the time the Countess turned over in her mind what Lady Moira let slip about bee-keeping. Slowly, she drifted through the painterly mauvish light toward the romantic ruins where she found MacBee perched on a fallen stone. The third sister was watching Hamish dismantling the stairs to the parapet, venting his spleen one angry stone at a time. Jackdaws circled overhead, lamenting the destruction.

  “May I sit with you?”

  “Please do, dearie.”

  “Did the twins know before they died who you were?”

  MacBee cocked her head and sniffed the air like a wild animal, as if sensing a change in the weather for the worse. She blinked back some tears and used a grimy sleeve to wipe her dripping nose. “Yes, dearie, they did. Mrs Ross handed them a note the night of the wedding saying I wanted to see them out by the abbey ruin. My note promised to reveal to them a great secret. They thought I had some hidden treasure for them and came running like children after a treat. The truth hit them hard. They called me a filthy liar and a mad witch. Catherine slapped my face; Carter spat in my eye. I had already planned to kill them. I didn’t want them to hang. But I wanted to kill them out of love not hate. In the end they denied me even that tiny scrap of happiness. I stabbed them before they realized what I was up to then I thrust the tines into the wounds to disguise where the knife blade had gone in. Do you want the antlers back? I hid them under Widdershins Brig.”

  The Countess shook her head. “Keep them. Perhaps one day you can clean them up and put them back where they came from. I am going to give Graymalkin to Dr Watson as a Christmas present. I’m sure he will be happy for you and Mrs Ross to stay on and look after the place. The old house will not be so empty. You know Horace has proposed marriage to your other sister and is planning to make a go of the hotel? I think it will thrive. There is nothing like a few grisly murders and talk of witches to attract the beau monde from London!”

  MacBee chuckled ruefully. “It will end well for some at least, perhaps even for the children of Alice Mawson.”

  “Yes, Lady Adeline is talking about turning Mawgate Lodge into a club house so that the abbey ruins can remain as they are. She and Hamish will be married as soon as he comes to his senses and realizes what wonderful custodians of Lammas Castle the two of them will be.”

  MacBee hunched her bony shoulders and hugged her Black Watch tartan cloak closer to her sexless breast as the hyperborean barbarian swept across the icy waters of Loch Maw signalling the start of another bleak campaign. “I might move back to Graymalkin now you mention it, dearie. Methinks the days are getting shorter and the Scottish winters are growing longer.”

 

 

 


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