The Lammas Curse (12 page)

The Countess gave a tinkly
laugh of genuine amusement. “You didn’t believe that fairy story!
Mark my words! Mr Dee will soon have a starring role in the
play.”

“Miss O’Hara was adamant he
would play a witch. And she didn’t strike me as the sort of woman
who changes her mind once her mind is made up. What else did you
notice?”

“Lord Cruddock is
not
the father of her child.”

Dr Watson slapped the side of
his head and groaned. “You have not yet explained how you even know
she is pregnant and now you profess to know who the father of the
child is not!”

“Calm down. Your grammar is
starting to slip. I know she is pregnant because she did not eat
any calves’ liver. And she did not drink more than a mouthful of
either the red or white wine. And she waved away the brandy that
was proffered to her after fainting. And she found the smell of the
black pudding overpowering and offensive because her nose wrinkled
up at it and she appeared to gag. And when we first arrived and she
held out her hand to you, which you salivated over like a drooling
puppy, she rested the other hand on her belly, a tell-tale sign
that a woman is with child. And her waist and breasts are much
larger than in her photo. And her ankles are swollen.”

He needed a moment to take it
all in and didn’t reply for a minute or two. “Your reasoning is
nothing more than conjecture. Circumstantial evidence hardly
amounts to proof. And I did not salivate!”

“You wanted an impression. I
gave you one. Shall I tell you why I think Lord Cruddock is not the
father of her child?”

“Oh, very well! Why not!”

“Lord Cruddock is fifty years
of age or thereabouts yet he has never fathered a child though he
has been linked with a string of ineligible women. Most wealthy
bachelors would have sired a schoolroom of illegitimate waifs by
age fifty. Recall the Duke of Chasleton, the Earl of Lomond,
Viscount Devereaux and all the royal bastards throughout history.
Baron Dunravin has not fathered a single one.”

“Who told you this?”

“Miss Dee.”

“When?”

“When I befriended her in the
lounge car of The Royal Scot.”

“You believe her?”

“Yes, though I admit she did
not state it in exactly those terms.”

“Oh, I see! What terms did she
state it in?”

“Mind your grammar,” she
reminded, sounding just like his mother when he was a boy of eight
and had trouble parsing. “She described how her father and his
lordship grew up together on the Cruddock estate. They were
inseparable friends. Mr Crawford Dee, her father, was the son of
the ghillie. The ghillie hailed from an ancient and highly
respected Scottish family that had fallen on hard times - Lairds of
Colcquoun. Her father, rather than following in his own father’s
footsteps, went to South Africa to make his fortune when such
fortunes were still easy to make. He quickly became one of the
richest men on the Cape but he was an inveterate gambler and a poor
speculator and just as quickly lost it all and shot himself. Over
the years Lord Cruddock was a regular visitor to South Africa and
it was openly discussed and understood by all parties concerned
that because he would never sire any children of his own he would
be both god-father to and ward of his best friend’s
off-spring.”

“I see,” murmured the doctor.
“The implication there is that if not for his engagement to Miss
O’Hara the Dee twins would have been his sole beneficiaries.”

“Miss Dee did not say so
directly but I took that to be the case.”

“Do you think the Dees know
that Miss O’Hara is pregnant?”

The Countess did not need to
think for long. “Yes,” she said. “Catherine Dee is extremely
observant and perspicacious. And I believe she would share her
observations with her brother, which means he would be aware of it
too, though…” she stopped mid-stream - unusual for her.

“Though?” prompted the
doctor.

“Well, there is something odd
about Carter Dee.”

“Odd? In what way?”

“I’m not sure. I cannot put my
finger on it. It’s just a feeling I have. There is more to him than
meets the eye, and, well, I would not like to have an assignation
with him alone after dark.” She gave a perceptible shiver then
laughed softly to make light of the unnerving sensation. “I think a
ghost just walked on my grave.”

Gently, he placed his hand on
top of hers where it rested on the seat. “Tread carefully,” he
warned. “We cannot allow ourselves to forget there have been three
murders already. And, yes, there is no doubt they were
murders.”

“Oh, Dammit!” she exclaimed
suddenly.

His hand shot back like a
jack-in-the-box. “What is it?”

“I just remembered Miss Dee
forgot to give me her copy of the play. With all that weird
business in the library and the fainting spells, it must have
skipped her mind. I will have to return to Cruddock Castle tomorrow
and collect it. I might walk instead of taking the landau. I can
check out the abbey ruins on my way. I can even start learning my
lines on the way home. Oh! It will be so thrilling to be on stage
with the famous Lola O’Hara. Just think of it!”

“Yes,” he muttered, feeling
sick at the mere thought. “Just think of it.”

The carriage entered Jackdaw
Wood and neither said anything further. The dark wood was a place
of reverential hush and it had that same hushing effect on those
who entered it. Even the night seemed to hold its breath. There was
no whooshing sound of the wind through the trees, no hoot from an
owl, no cries of a vixen. The only sound was that of the slow
rolling wheels of the carriage but even that was muffled by the
miry ground cushioned by centuries of leaf litter and moss.

Once they came out on the other
side of the wood moonlight broke through the clouds and glanced off
the inky water of Loch Maw. It limned the pock-marked stones of
Graymalkin, squatting on its impregnable piece of bedrock in the
shadows of the riverbank. Fedir and Xenia took the landau and the
horses into the barn where Horace had chosen to sleep to protect
his precious property from horse thieves while the doctor and the
Countess hurried across the footbridge.

They had crossed the courtyard
and had reached the flight of steps when they heard a murmur of
voices. At the foot of the steps was a tiny window, not much bigger
than a leper’s squint, set into the thickness of the stone. It
provided a glimpse into the kitchen. The doctor, dreaming of his
warm bed and his toasty fire, quickly mounted the steps but the
Countess, ever curious, paused. The pane of glass was thick and
grimy. It was like peering through a magnifying lens held at the
wrong distance. The edges of the room were bathed in gloom but in
the heart of the kitchen, in the middle of a round table, winked a
pale and lonely candle set in a simple pewter holder. The moony
halo of golden light cast a ghostly glow over the threesome who sat
hunched around the little table studying what appeared to be a
map.

Wearing a warm, winter
Redingote, cut
en princesse
, Countess Volodymyrovna set off
on foot for Cruddock Castle straight after breakfast, her mind
ticking over Mrs Ross’s claim that there had been only one visitor
to Graymalkin the previous evening.

“Only my sister, Mrs
Ardkinglas, paid a call last night,”

The Countess initially pressed
the point, for she was certain a third person had been sitting at
the kitchen table, though she could not say who it was since that
person was wearing a hooded cloak and had their back to the grimy
glass.

“It was only my cloak hanging
on the back of the chair,” dismissed Mrs Ross. “A witchy wax-light
can conjure queer shadows that play tricks on the eye, especially
when you steal a gledge through wonky glass,” she added with
conviction. “It was past midnight and you had had a long day,
madame, and a big night at the castle too, and were just imagining
a third person.”

“You appeared to be studying a
map,” persisted the Countess.

“My sister is thinking of
travelling to Berwick-on-Tweed at Christmastime and I was showing
her the shortest route on my map.”

“Oh, what a stroke of luck! I
have a hopeless sense of direction,” the Countess lied. “Could I
borrow your map for today?”

“I am sorry, madame. My sister
took the map away with her last night.”

Gingerly, the Countess crossed
at the shallowest point of Fickle Beck, lifting her Redingote above
the water while leaping from stone to stone, wondering why someone
who had lived in an area for years would need a map to visit a main
town like Berwick. Moreover, why would an hotelier on the brink of
bankruptcy close their hotel during the Christmas season?

The Countess had just crossed
Widdershins Brig and reached the edge of the golf course when she
met Miss Dee, who immediately handed her the copy of the play she
had promised to give her the previous night, plus a second copy she
had managed to secure for Dr Watson.

“How is Miss O’Hara’s health
this morning?” enquired the Countess after pocketing the two plays
and thanking her friend most sincerely.

“She is still in her bed. She
claims to have a frightful headache but I suspect it may be
something else.”

“Morning sickness?”

Miss Dee smiled knowingly. “Oh,
it is lovely to be able to talk to someone who does not dissemble.
Yes, she is with child. We probably won’t see her until rehearsal
time. That is the other reason I came to see you. I offered to pass
on the message that there will be a rehearsal this evening. Arrive
at 5 o’clock and make sure you have something to eat first and try
to study your lines this afternoon. Miss O’Hara is short-tempered
with anyone who fluffs their entrance. A buffet supper will be
served afterwards so it will be another late night. Mr Bancoe is
grumbling into his beard and Mr Larssensen is gnashing his fangs
because the tournament restarts tomorrow and they will be the first
to tee-off.”

“I feel guilty that I have
dragged you away from your game. I know how important the
tournament is to you and you must be eager to try out your new
clubs. I apologise for making you come all this way.”

“No need to apologise. I am
younger than the two men and I am quite fit. This walk is nothing
compared to the miles I covered on the veldt. This afternoon I
shall play eighteen holes and still have energy to spare for
rehearsals.”

“I’ll walk back with you as far
as the abbey ruin if you like. I’d like the chance to explore it at
my leisure. By the way, do you happen to have a map of the wider
area?”

“A map? No. But you cannot
possibly get lost. There are only four main roads. The north road
leads to Edinburgh, the south to Duns, west to Peebles and east
will take you to Berwick-on-Tweed. The smaller roads circle round
but eventually all lead back to Loch Maw. If you are thinking of
doing some rambling I wouldn’t mind joining you but I cannot set
off until after the tournament. Oh, there are my two main rivals.”
Miss Dee halted and pointed in a nor-easterly direction. “Can you
see the four figures in the hollow? Mr Bancoe has just teed off
from the tenth and his partner and the two caddies are waiting by
the cluster of trees. Let’s walk briskly so that they don’t catch
up to us.”

Arm in arm, they began weaving
through a spinney of silver birches when the Countess recalled the
death of Peter Lancaster. “Is this where the Australian player
died?”

Miss Dee stopped abruptly and
dropped her arm, there was something chilling in her sideways
glance. “Yes, how did you know?”

“I read it in the newspaper. A
tree branch fell on him – is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right. It was such
bad luck. He was a player who had a lot of potential.”

“The tournament was halted
after that, I believe?”

“Yes, some detectives arrived
from Scotland Yard and wanted to know where everyone was at the
time and that sort of thing. But it was just the hand of Fate. He
was in the wrong place at the wrong time - an unfortunate accident,
nothing more. It could have been any one of us.”

“Indeed.” The Countess sensed
now was not the time to pursue the circumstances of the other two
deaths. There had been something repellent in the pale blue orbs.
“It doesn’t bear thinking about,” she muttered, walking ahead.

The romantic ruins of the abbey
came into view as soon as they emerged from the spinney, and so did
a lively Gordon setter. The dog came bounding around a corner where
some gothic tracery that had once been a church window and had
miraculously managed to withstand the ravages of several hundred
Scottish winters was still intact. The dog sprinted toward them and
it appeared to be a very friendly animal, not aggressive toward
strangers, and beautifully cared for. Its glossy black and tan coat
gleamed as it caught the cold rays of mid-morning.

“This is Thane,” said Miss Dee,
giving the dog a vigorous pat. “He belongs to Hamish Ross. If Thane
is here it means Hamish will be nearby. I will leave you to explore
the abbey on your own. Make sure you climb the stones up to what is
left of the bell tower. There is a little parapet at the top. It
offers a superb view over the loch and the golf course. See you
later tonight.”

The Countess watched Miss Dee
take a shortcut across an ancient graveyard. She clearly knew the
area well enough to stray from the given path. The young woman
covered about a hundred yards then turned back to wave before
disappearing behind a mass of fallen stones.

The bell tower wasn’t difficult
to locate since the stack of stones that formed some makeshift
steps also formed the tallest part of the abbey ruins. Thane
followed her but when she began to clamber up the massive blocks he
began to bark. She tried to coax him up but he began to
whimper.