He turned back to Mrs McLaren. ‘I am fortunate that you are more circumspect. I somehow think that you might have succeeded where he failed. It is as if August Bell Clarion were still alive, playing the game as he always has. Sending you and Orville St John to do his own dirty work, is that not so, Mrs McLaren?’
He paused but she did not reply.
‘Let me see the scarf.’
She hesitated. He held out his hand to receive it.
Isla McLaren then slowly lifted it from around her neck and held out the scarf with both hands, as if it were a banner. Lit from behind by one of the electric lights on the walls, it glowed in beautiful, if faded colours. It was wrinkled, though, and badly shredded in places. She walked towards us. We remained near the open panel. The steam had begun to make my eyes water, and I blinked to clear them.
I did not trust this woman and kept a firm grasp on my pistol.
Holmes hesitated before taking the scarf. The memories it must hold for him, I thought, feeling pain for his loss.
He took it from her, handling the fragile fabric with care. Then he held it up and gently shook it out. I watched as he forcibly distanced himself from the memory and once more became a man of cold science.
He pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket. ‘Hold this fabric up, Watson, extended here, against the light.’ His voice was brisk. Too brisk, I thought.
I reluctantly pocketed the gun, keeping an eye on Isla McLaren and did as he asked. He leaned in to examine the scarf minutely, with the dispassionate but intense regard of a laboratory technician.
After a moment he stood back and waved his hand dismissively.
‘She did not die from hanging. The marks tell the story. I can prove it. Stand closer, Watson. Here.’
I hesitated. This did not sound like a good idea.
‘It is all right, Watson. Come over here.’
I did so and he took the scarf from my hands and made a circle of it in the centre. He then moved behind me, looped this over my head and drew it uncomfortably tight round my neck. I gagged and my hands went instinctively to grasp at the scarf.
‘You see.’ said Holmes, letting it loosen only slightly. ‘She was strangled manually, not hanged. It happened like this. Her killer came from behind most likely. You saw where Watson’s hands naturally went. Keep them there, Doctor, as I remove the scarf.’
He unwound it from my neck and held it up to the light. ‘See these raking tears here, near the centre? They were made by her hands as the killer—’
He paused, words escaping him suddenly. He cleared his throat, blinking rapidly. But he took a deep breath and willed the scientist back to life.
‘As the killer tightened the scarf. Charlotte, she … she struggled to break free, and clawed at this part here, near the middle.’
He then pulled the scarf through his hands to one end. ‘Yet at this end, you see the marks of the knot for the noose? We know that her hands were not tied, as you testified, Mrs McLaren, and the court papers showed. In an official hanging, the hands are secured because instinct compels one to fight the knot. If she were alive when hanged, the shredding from her nails would have been here—’ he pointed to an area closer to one of the ends, ‘rather than where they are.’
He dropped his hands, and the scarf dangled limply from them. His face was a blank, devoid of all expression. ‘She was strangled by someone, then hanged to make it look like a suicide.’
Isla McLaren and I could not move.
As if a switch were pulled on an electric light the full visualization of the crime swept over Holmes. He swallowed, blinking back tears. No one was more surprised at this than Holmes himself. He put his hand to his eyes, embarrassed. I took the scarf from him and both Mrs McLaren and I turned from Holmes to give him a moment of privacy.
‘How did you know my nickname?’ Isla McLaren asked me in a choked voice.
‘I just came from your grandmother in Atholmere,’ I said.
She nodded. I gently folded the scarf into a small square and handed it to her.
‘Bravo, Mr Holmes,’ said Isla McLaren. ‘I believe you are right. And you know that August was upstairs in her room when I found her in the sitting room,’ said Isla.
‘I do,’ said Holmes. ‘I read the notes of the trial again and again. How is it that you were not mentioned by name?’
‘My parents kept my name from the transcript. Do you not remember the reference to “a local child”?’
‘Yes. I attempted in vain to discover this “local child”. I was blocked from any investigation I attempted.’
‘August came downstairs minutes after I found Charlotte hanging. He told me he had found her suicide note.’
‘Which he no doubt forged. His special gift,’ said Holmes. ‘He forged the elopement note from Fiona as well. And the anonymous policeman’s to you. And to Orville St John. But this note, ah this note! You were standing by the body. August Bell Clarion came downstairs from her room and told you he had just found Charlotte’s suicide note?’
‘He had it in his hand.’
‘Did you wonder why it was upstairs and not near the body?’
‘I presumed she wrote it and left it on her desk,’ said the lady.
‘Tell me exactly what happened.’
‘He would not let me see it. I grabbed it but he pulled it away, out of my hand.’
‘Then how do you know what it was?’
‘I saw her handwriting. And her special brown ink. The …’ Isla McLaren was rocked by a sudden memory. ‘Oh my God, the ink!’ A sob escaped her and she covered her mouth in anguish. ‘I … later noticed a brown ink stain on my hands!’
‘Either he had just written it,’ said Holmes. ‘Or your hands were wet.’
‘It was waterproof ink. Therefore it must have still been wet. He killed her, then went upstairs.’ she cried.
‘… and wrote the note, minutes before you arrived. He was writing it as you were with Charlotte,’ said Holmes. ‘I suspected August killed her but could not get access to prove it. Together we now have the proof.’
‘What a shame this monster eluded a trial,’ I said. ‘Death at Khartoum is almost too easy an end for him.’
‘It is not over yet,’ said Holmes. ‘He feigned his death once in El Obeid. I now believe he was able to do so a second time. August Bell Clarion lives and I will find and stop him at all costs.’
‘He lives?’ I could not believe it.
‘Yes. And he has been here all along. Scarred beyond recognition, and having returned here because Cameron Coupe, complicit in Donal’s death, would be forced to offer him sanctuary. We have seen him.’
‘My God!’ I said. ‘But you say we have seen him?’
‘Here?’ asked Isla
‘Yes. I missed him, Mrs McLaren, and so did you. It is Jowe Lammas, Coupe’s right hand man.’
‘My God!’ said Isla. ‘Lammas! Lammas is the month of August.’
Holmes nodded. ‘And “Jowe” is a Scots dialect word for—’
‘— the peal of a bell. Oh, my God!’ she cried.
‘He was here, but he has fled,’ said my friend, the curtain of exhaustion once again settling over him. ‘I have searched everywhere on the property, with the help of Moray and little Calum and Alistair, and men they trust. But I believe the man we know as August Bell Clarion has not gone far. I feel it. And I am certain he will strike again.’
‘Perhaps sooner than you think, Sherlock Holmes,’ said a voice from the darkness behind us.
CHAPTER 40
A Wash
mirthless, terrible laugh sounded from behind an adjacent boiler to our right. We turned to see a grotesque figure emerge from behind the equipment. He was towering, muscular, and with a face that looked like it had emerged from the depths of hell – one eye gone, a jagged scar, a slab of meat for a face, red and veined and like the devil himself. He laughed again, a peculiar high-pitched sound. It was Jowe Lammas. Or—
‘August Bell Clarion,’ said Sherloc
k Holmes. ‘You are looking well.’
With a feint to the right, Clarion lunged suddenly and grabbed Isla by the wrist, yanking her to him. He held her tightly, pinning one arm to her side, and then brutally grabbed the other and twisted it behind her back. She screamed in pain.
‘Quiet, little cousin,’ said the heinous figure in a hoarse whisper. He wrapped one enormous arm around her neck and squeezed. ‘Or I will snap this little stem.’
In the instant, without a word and entirely on instinct, Holmes and I separated from each other and now faced the man from either side. He immediately shifted Isla to block my angle on him.
‘Ah yes, Dr Watson, you are the one with the gun,’ said he. ‘You may not wish to shoot through this young lady, even though she has been enjoying impersonating a ghost. You are not quite transparent after all, my dear.’ He twisted her arm some more and she cried out in pain. ‘Nor are you dead yet, Isla.’
‘Fiend. You killed sweet Charlotte! Our own cousin!’ she spat.
‘Well, yes, though it was her own fault,’ said Clarion. ‘Did you know you very much resemble her? Lovely little things, both of you.’ He gave her neck a squeeze and she gagged. I heard Holmes’s sharp intake of breath near me.
He regarded Holmes with a fierce concentration. ‘Here is what I would like you to do, gentlemen. Dr Watson, throw your gun into that mash. Go on, do it.’
I glanced at the opening over the mash tun into the grey, swirling soup below. It was at least five or six feet deep, maybe more. I would never retrieve it. Another scream from Isla McLaren as he twisted her arm, and Holmes nodded to me to release the gun. As I did and Clarion watched me, I saw Holmes move slightly in my peripheral vision.
The gun sailed through the opening and made a small splash in the swirling mash. ‘Very good,’ said August Bell Clarion. Retaining a stranglehold on Isla, he released her other arm and withdrew a Webley of his own from his pocket, training it on Holmes. He began to laugh. It was a strange coughing sound, mirthless and frightening.
‘Worried about this young lady?’ he wheezed.
Holmes shrugged. ‘Not particularly. I see you have risen from the dead. Twice,’ he added casually.
‘I knew it would take more than once to fool the “great” Sherlock Holmes,’ said Clarion.
‘Your first “death” at El Obeid was rather more convincing.’
‘Indeed, my substitute did die. Gruesomely, I understand. The second time I had to make more clever arrangements.’
Holmes nodded. ‘I have sensed your subtle hand, Clarion. But clearly you did not escape unscathed.’ He passed a hand over his own cheek.
A grimace passed over the ruined face of August Bell Clarion. ‘There was an interesting way of extracting information among the tribe which snared me after Khartoum. I was lucky to escape with my life. But they released me when they finally understood I was helpful to their cause.’
‘You betrayed Gordon at Khartoum!’ I exclaimed.
August Bell Clarion shrugged but did not answer.
‘You then returned to Scotland and blackmailed Coupe, who was party to your murder of Donal McLaren, to hire and promote you,’ said Holmes. ‘How then did you become involved in the Fiona case? It was you, was it not, who sent the head to the South of France?’ remarked Holmes. ‘I presume you used an intermediary, probably Seamus Marchand, the man who later helped you switch the casks. And who paid for his loyalty to you in blood. Your fingerprints are all over this series of events.’
August Bell Clarion smiled and it was a tear rent through the spidery scars of his reddened face. ‘Back in form, Sherlock Holmes. Exactly right. But how did I become involved, you ask? I walked in on the little scuffle between Coupe and Fiona. Or rather the end of it. The rest you can imagine. Although it took you some time.’
‘But why send the head?’
August Bell Clarion laughed. ‘You have not figured that out?’
‘You resented the laird for the army post he arranged for you—’
‘He gave me a death warrant, not a gift. I was happy to repay him. But no, that was not it.’
Holmes paused. I looked about for something, anything I could use against this monster. He was intent on my friend, and at that moment, held all the cards. My hand stole to my pocket. The knife! That cursed artefact, reputed to kill the evil and protect the good. I felt its reassuring cold handle. Just a thing. Nothing magic. A thing. But perhaps a useful one.
‘But to send a man his daughter’s head on a plate – that is going rather far, even for you,’ Holmes continued. ‘You must have had something in mind.’
Clarion smiled, savouring the moment. ‘It really had little to do with him. Although Fiona being his issue did add a certain piquancy to it. You still do not understand, do you? Where is the brilliant reasoner your chronicler portrays, Mr Sherlock Holmes?’
Holmes said nothing. The sound of condensation dripping, the rhythmic clanking and whoosh of the nearby steam engine, and the splash of the rakes churning incessantly in the huge vat below us filled the void. Holmes remained puzzled, I could read it in his posture.
‘Consider this. First I sent Orville and Isla after you but both failed in their mission.’
‘Of course,’ said Holmes. ‘Orville St John said he had recently received a letter proving it was I who cut out his tongue. I presume you impersonated a policeman on paper in that missive.’
Clarion laughed. ‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Forgery is your gift. I have not forgotten.’ said Holmes. ‘So you thought to incite St John to murderous revenge. It almost worked. You, of course, cut out his tongue yourself. Mutilated your own best friend.’
August Bell Clarion smiled. Half of his face cooperated. The other half crumpled like wet newspaper. ‘Friends are there to be used. Besides, he argued with me too much. Take note, Dr Watson. But poor Orville. He never saw me coming. I knocked him out first, of course. But so difficult! The tongue is a very strong muscle, you know. You would have been sent up for that if it were not for your interfering brother Mycroft,’ said Clarion.
The silver tongue. The champion public speaker who had just turned a crowd against Sherlock Holmes. It was a near perfect frame.
Isla McLaren struggled, and grunted in pain.
‘Be still, little one,’ said Clarion. ‘Yes, the letter you received was written by me as well.’
Holmes nodded. ‘Of course! From this same mysterious policeman. I will wager he had “proof” that I caused your cousin’s death, and sent you the scarf. Is that right Mrs McLaren?’
Isla struggled to reply but Clarion tightened his grip and she made small choking sounds.
‘A miscalculation, Clarion,’ said Holmes. ‘Mrs McLaren did not entirely take the bait. No, she wanted to see for herself.’
The lady, unable to answer, moved her head almost imperceptibly in a nod.
‘But the question of Fiona’s head remains,’ said Holmes. ‘Why did you send it to the hotel?’
August Bell Clarion laughed loudly. ‘I am surprised! You have never been accused of false modesty, Mr Sherlock Holmes. How could you miss this? It was all about you. I knew you would come to Braedern when you heard of it. It was just the outré touch to attract you, like the proverbial moth to the flame.’
I had been right. The head had been sent to the Grand Hôtel du Cap for no other reason than to lure Sherlock Holmes to the Highlands. If we managed to live through this, I would surely remind him of it.
‘But you had no way of knowing I would be there!’ said Holmes.
‘It did not matter. You would come when you heard of it. That you were there was just a bit of luck!’
Isla McLaren had begun to slump, presumably in considerable pain from Clarion’s grip. Her eyes were half closed. Was she suffocating?
‘Mrs McLaren!’ I cried. Clarion ignored me.
‘I suspected you from the start,’ said Holmes. ‘I had your death at El Obeid investigated one more time, and confirmed. But when I saw your photogr
aph at Khartoum as Donal McLaren, I knew.’
He had, of course, said the opposite to me. August Bell Clarion’s gaze shifted to my face. Once again his face creased in the horrific smile.
‘Poor Doctor Watson, you have been left out of the game,’ said he. ‘Sherlock Holmes was never much of a friend to anyone. Have you not figured that out?’ He turned to Isla McLaren. ‘He really did crush your cousin Charlotte’s dreams, you know. A cold, cold man. He is incapable of love.’
My hand tightened around the fabled knife. Perhaps if I could get closer.
Mrs McLaren continued to struggle but could not move in his grip.
‘Oh, but you think he is capable of love, Isla? Shall we see?’ Clarion glanced my way.
‘August Bell Clarion,’ said Holmes quickly. ‘Your fight is with me. Let them go.’
Without warning, and still with his grip on the girl, Clarion swung his gun to point at me. Mrs McLaren screamed. I ducked but the sound of a shot echoed in the cavernous room. I felt a sharp sting in the outside of my shoulder near my old wound, and turned to look at it. Just as blood appeared on my shirt, a wall of pain hit me and I sank to my knees.
Holmes was immediately at my side.
‘Watson!’ He bent down and grasped my forearms, his face close to mine. ‘Watson! Tell me you are all right!’
My arm throbbed. But I still had sensation in it. I moved my hand to make sure.
‘Just a graze,’ I whispered. ‘A wild shot.’
‘Make it be more,’ he whispered back, leaning in to apparently examine the wound. ‘Oh, my God!’ he cried.
Blocked by Holmes, I reached down with my good arm into my trousers pocket and found the jewelled hunting knife. I thrust it into his hand. He pocketed it as I groaned and fell backward, pretending to lose consciousness.
Through half closed eyes, I witnessed the following. August Bell Clarion stared at us in rapt fascination. Holmes leapt to his feet.
‘You have killed John Watson!’ he cried in thoroughly believable anguish.
Suddenly Isla McLaren trod on Clarion’s instep with every ounce of force she could. ‘Fiend!’ she cried as her sharp heel hammered into his arch. He screamed and dropped the gun. Holmes dived for it.
Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder Page 34
