The Lammas Curse (35 page)

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.

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 5
^th
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.”