The Lammas Curse (19 page)

Xenia cleared the table and
Miss Lambert set up the ivory alphabet tiles in a randomly arranged
circle, placing an upturned glass in the centre. They returned to
their seats and placed their index fingers on the glass.

“Someone needs to ask a
question,” directed Lady Moira.

Dr Watson reminded himself not
to roll his eyes.

“I will ask a question,”
volunteered the Countess. “Will I ever marry again?”

The glass slid slowly to ‘yes’.
As well as letters of the alphabet there were a few tiles with
frequently used words on them.

Miss Lambert gave a joyous
little clap of hands.

“Do not remove your finger,
Miss Lambert,” reprimanded the dowager as she steered the glass
back to the centre. “It breaks the connection to the spirit world.
You must ask the next question to re-open the portal.”

Miss Lambert looked flustered
as she replaced her finger. “I’m sorry, Lady Moira. Oh, dear, I
cannot think of anything to ask.”

“Don’t be so foolish,” rasped
the dowager. “Of course you can!”

Miss Lambert blushed and
blurted, “Will I marry my one true love?”

The glass seemed to go one way,
stop, and then go the other way. Miss Lambert bit her lip. Dr
Watson decided to give the spirit world some help. He exerted
considerable pressure on the glass and steered it to where he
wanted it to go. The relief on Miss Lambert’s face was worth the
deceit.

“Your turn to ask a question,
Dr Watson,” said the dowager, eyeing him warily.

It had only been a few minutes
but he was already bored with the ludicrous parlour game and
feeling bored often went hand in hand with feeling contrary and
feeling contrary usually went cheek by jowl with being daring, or
rather, reckless and therefore careless of consequences.

“Who killed Mr Brown?”

The glass moved with
painstaking slowness around the circle and finally stopped at the
letter ‘C’. The doctor was so stunned he lifted his finger without
thinking.

“Must I say it again?” rebuked
the dowager. “Do not remove your finger. Now you will have to ask
another question to restore the link and re-open the portal.”

He felt even more reckless and
daring. “Will there be another murder?”

As well as letters of the
alphabet and common words there were some Roman numerals among the
tiles – I, X, L, C, M. These were underscored to distinguish them
from letters. The glass moved to an underscored ‘C’.

The doctor protested that ‘100’
was ridiculous, refraining from adding that the game was stupid and
he was clearly mad for participating.

Lady Moira took umbrage. “The
Ouija is never wrong. If it fails to make sense it is because you
are not yet ready to understand. It is my turn to ask a question
now: Who is the father of Miss O’Hara’s baby?”

The glass began sliding toward
‘L’ when Dr Watson decided to fight it but it was akin to battling
an invisible force. Someone was exerting considerable pressure. The
glass was going back and forth. The idea came like a flash.
Abruptly, he withdrew his finger, applying pressure to the rim of
the glass as he did so. It did the trick. The glass flipped,
tumbled to the floor and rolled under the table.

Lady Moira was furious. She
banged her fist on the table and the ivory tiles juddered in all
directions. Miss Lambert quickly scrambled to retrieve the ones
that had fallen. Prudently, the Countess decided to join her. Dr
Watson concluded that now was a good time to serve coffee. He went
to find Xenia but as he threw open the door leading to the hall he
found Mrs Ross on her knees listening at the keyhole.

“Some coffee,” he said
brusquely, “if you will, Mrs Ross,” and briskly closed the
door.

It was several minutes before
order was restored. They settled into comfortable old armchairs by
the fireplace just as Mrs Ross entered with the coffee tray. It was
the first time she had come into contact with the two guests. It
had been the Countess’s idea to have Xenia serve the dinner on the
pretext that Mrs Ross would have enough to do in the kitchen. In
truth it was to avoid any awkwardness during the meal.

“Good evening, Mrs Ross,” said
Lady Moira stiffly.

“Good evening, your
ladyship.”

“You appear to be keeping
well?”

“Thank you, your ladyship.”

“Are you still
basket-weaving?”

“Yes, your ladyship. Hamish
takes my baskets to the market in Duns and old Mrs Greene sells
them for me.”

“I have some 5 inch bodkins
that I no longer use since my eyesight has started to fade. You may
be able to make use of them. Fetch your embroidery bag Miss
Lambert. I placed four bodkins into your bag prior to our
departure. Keep one for yourself and Mrs Ross can have the other
three.”

Miss Lambert delved into her
bag and brought out three bodkins with wooden handles and
sharp-pointed metallic ends.

“Those are the biggest bodkins
I have ever seen,” observed Dr Watson. “They look more like chisels
or awls than domestic tools.”

“They look more like lethal
weapons,” quipped the Countess as she poured the coffee and offered
the first cup to the grande-dame.

“Bodkins come in all sizes,”
responded the dowager. “They make useful tools. I keep one in the
pocket of my cloak - handy at this time of year for gathering
mushrooms and for all sorts of unforeseen eventualities
outdoors.”

Mrs Ross thanked Lady Moira and
retreated back to the kitchen.

Dr Watson was still feeling
reckless and daring. “This afternoon, Lady Moira, you said
something about Graymalkin having a long history – something to do
with witchcraft. I was wondering if you might elaborate.”

“Such a dark chapter from
Scottish history,” the old lady said sadly, accepting a slice of
Dundee cake. “Are you sure you wish to hear it with the young
ladies present?”

“Oh, I’m sure Miss Lambert and
I are much tougher than we look!” joked the Countess, essaying a
playful wink at her prim counterpart.

“Very well,” conceded Lady
Moira. “Scotland had its own Witchfinder General, an ambitious man
by the name of Blair Colquon. The first lady to suffer at his hands
was the widow who owned Graymalkin – Jennifer Gray. You have
probably seen the dungeon and the instruments of torture. Blair
Colquon made good use of them. The Widow Gray was stripped and
shaved – a torture in itself for any woman – and then pricked her
all over with a bodkin to prove witch-hood. Each time she fainted,
she was revived with freezing cold water. The terrible pain and
intense cold would have been enough to kill anyone but Widow Gray
was hardy. Blair Colquon forced her to wear a scold’s bridle while
he inflicted ever more disfiguring punishments until she succumbed.
Her body was left in Jackdaw Wood for the wolves to devour.”

The old lady sighed heavily
before continuing. “The last witch of the Borders came from these
parts too. Her name was Alice Mawson. Mercifully, she was not
tortured or left to the mercy of wolves or burnt at the stake.
Times had moved on. She was exiled and her wealth and property was
confiscated.”

“Did you discover all this when
you went to check the archives in Edinburgh?” asked Miss Lambert,
sounding impressed.

“Yes,” said Lady Moira, smiling
indulgently, the way an adult might smile at a precocious child who
has just asked an embarrassing question. “Well, Miss Lambert, I
think it might be time to bid our hosts a bonnie good night and to
thank them for their hospitality.”

Miss Lambert picked up on the
cue and after eliciting charming courtesies went to fetch their fur
cloaks, fur gloves and her embroidery bag in which could be found
all manner of useful treasure.

“Are you sure the roads will be
safe?” posed the Countess, listening to the wind howling around the
ramparts. “Perhaps it would be safer for you to stay the night and
set off after breakfast. Mrs Ross can -”

“Tosh! The roads will be
perfectly safe,” cut off Lady Moira. “I have used them a thousand
times in all weathers. The rain has held off and that drizzle is a
mere damp squib. We Scots are a hardy race. If we were afraid of a
bit of bad weather we would never step outside!”

“I think the Countess may be
right,” argued Dr Watson, thinking of this wife’s niece travelling
through Jackdaw Wood at night with wolves on the prowl. If anything
happened he would never forgive himself – he should never have
invited them for dinner, he could see that now. He hadn’t
considered the dangers inherent in the return trip home. “The road
through Jackdaw Wood is miry at the best of times and the wind may
have brought down another tree.”

The Countess was nodding her
head in agreement. “Our coachman will not travel through Jackdaw
Wood after dark. He thinks - ”

“Spare me!” disdained the old
lady. “He thinks it is full of witches! Superstitious tosh and
nonsense! I cannot lecture him on his ignorance but you must learn
to distinguish between historical fact and childish fairy tale,
Countess Volodymyrovna! I bid you good night!”

Dr Watson hauled his trusty
golf clubs into the landau, smiling as nervously as a boy going off
to boarding school for the first time. The Countess wished him luck
with his caddying as she waved him off then quickly donned her warm
winter Redingote and set off for the Marmion Hydro Hotel on foot.
She wanted to speak to young Robbie Fyfe and she wanted to explore
Jackdaw Wood along the way, something she knew her companion in
crime would discourage.

The drizzle from the day before
had disappeared but a grey haze hung over the land. It was not as
thick as London fog, more like a murky grey veil, just enough to
confound the senses and bleary the air.

Jackdaw Wood was a queer place
- a remnant from a time when Caledon fyrr forests covered most of
Scotland. A time of wolf and lynx and wild boar; snow and ice;
Picts and Celts. It was a lone survivor in a new landscape treed
with slender white beauties called birch and alder, a forgotten
place of towering brown trunks that resembled gargantuan legs, like
mythic titans minus torsos. Every scarred and wind-whipped trunk
was more than a century old, gangrenous with lichen and moss. But
what was queer was that there were no jackdaws.

Once the Countess entered the
wood it didn’t take long to realize that every moss-mottled trunk
looked like another and the one after that and so on. It didn’t
take long to lose her bearings. There were no straight paths and
too many tracks that curved around clumps of heather and snaked
through brittle fronds of bronzy bracken that provided perfect
camouflage for foraging deer that sometimes lifted their heads and
gave her a fright. The lofty branches dripped with damp and the
spongy ground, thick with leaves and centuries of rotting
vegetation, made a squelching sound underfoot. Every now and then
the greyness was arrested by the startling flash of something vivid
as a shaft of sunlight broke through the grey pall and spotlighted
a bright red crossbill flitting through the topmost branches.

She heard a rustling sound and
looked back. Something darted behind the tree. But which tree?
Deliberately, she turned away then spun back round. Something
flashed. She knew it wasn’t a deer –wrong shape - or a
caipercaillzie
– wrong size. Alert to every little sound,
she walked on warily, her heartbeat echoing in her ears, but the
track wound back on itself and she soon ended up back where she
started. The grey veil blurred the light. The trees blocked the
sun. She had no idea of the time. She walked on for a bit and once
again saw something dart behind the trees – something human.

She turned her back then
re-turned sharply and almost died from relief when it turned out to
be the young lad, Robbie Fyfe.

He looked equally relieved. “I
thought,” he stammered, still getting over the shock, “I thought
you might be Mother MacBee. I couldna see your face under the hood
and I hid behind a tree. But every time I moved, you seemed to be
there. Are you a witch too?”

“No, I’m not a witch. I’m a
Countess.”

“Do you count things?”

“My name is Countess
Volodymyrovna.”

“That sounds like a witch’s
name.”

“Do I look like a witch?”

He studied the mannish great
coat. “You could be a shape-shifter. Mother MacBee is a
shape-shifter. Sometimes she is a stag and sometimes she is a
blackbird.”

“Were you coming to Graymalkin
to see me?”

He nodded, looking over his
shoulder to make sure they were alone.

“Did you remember something
important?”

A sheepish look reminded her he
remembered the extra shilling. She extracted a coin and gave it
over.

“What did you remember?”

“I remembered I saw a broom
down the well.”

“A broom?”

“The sort that is rid by
witches.”

“Ah! A broom that witches ride?
A besom broom?”

He nodded quickly and pocketed
the shilling.

“Did you tell anyone else about
the broom?”

He shook his head sheepishly
and shuffled his feet while he looked down at the ground.

“You kept it secret except
foooor…?”

“Becky,” he finished
quickly.

“Becky,” she repeated gently.
“Why Becky?”

“Because she were cussing and
crying and searching everywhere for it. It stood in the doorway to
the scullery – for sweeping the fag ends into the well because Mrs
Ardkinglas didn’t like the lassies smoking. Does that mean I can
not have the extra shilling?”

The Countess thought quickly.
The besom broom tied in with the Wicca symbolism but it was also an
item common to kitchen courtyards and most likely the weapon the
murderer used to strike Mr Brown on the back of the neck before
shoving him down the well. The police would need to know about it.
It didn’t need to stay a secret.