The Lammas Curse (23 page)

“By the way, the Rajah is not
here to observe the tournament. That was a ruse invented by Lord
Cruddock. The Rajah is here to purchase the Lammas tiara.”

The doctor regarded her
quizzically. “You heard this from the Rajah’s own lips? Or is this
something you intuited by way of feminine logic?”

She ignored the provocation.
“The tiara features the Govinda diamond. It once belonged to the
Rajah’s family. It was stolen during the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857,
otherwise known as the Indian Uprising, by Colonel Fotheringay and
later commandeered by his superior officer, Lord Cruddock. The
Rajah is keen to restore it to its rightful home.”

“I cannot believe his lordship
would part with such an heirloom. I cannot believe his mother would
countenance it. I cannot believe his fiancé would be happy about it
either.”

“Lord Cruddock is bankrupt from
gambling losses. The sale is a secret. Neither his fiancé nor his
mother knows of it. The Rajah is waiting until after the wedding
day to spirit it away. It is the Rajah who is financing the golf
tournament. He believes the murders are being committed by someone
close to his lordship who is out to destroy him.”

“He could well be speaking
about himself. Years of rancour may have built up over the
purloining of the tiara in the first place, and having to buy back
something which was yours in the first place cannot be an easy
thing to stomach. Something like that sticks in a man’s craw. And
his factotum recalls a wily assassin I once tangled with in
Afghanistan. But I take my hat off to you - your trip to Edinburgh
was not for nothing. Did you learn anything else?”

“The Rajah’s ship is no longer
moored in the harbour. We sailed to Berwick-on-Tweed during the
night. There is discontent in his kingdom which he must quell as
soon as possible and he is hoping for a quick departure the morning
after the wedding.”

The doctor’s voice took on a
teasing tone. “Is the nabob still intent on making you his next
concubine?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied
blithely, “and the Lammas tiara will be mine to keep for my
lifetime - a wedding gift!”

The doctor’s smile soured. “And
what sort of dowry will he expect in return?”

“He did not mention a
dowry.”

“I don’t wonder.”

She recognized jealousy when
she heard it and laughed dismissively. “The real reason I went to
Edinburgh was not to secure a new husband but to study the
transcripts pertaining to the Scottish Witch Trials.”

“Sombre reading matter,” he
commented with typical Scottish understatement. “Do you think there
might be a connection between the Wicca symbolism and the events of
the past?”

“I’m not sure but something
Miss Lambert said stayed in my mind.”

“You may need to elaborate. I
am in the dark.”

“The night of the Ouija game
Miss Lambert said something about Lady Moira going to Edinburgh to
read up about the Witch Trials. Lady Moira dismissed the remark
rather briskly. Later that night, the howling wind kept me tossing
and turning and I thought it odd that Lady Moira would travel all
the way to Edinburgh to study archives she has had access to for
most of her life, especially as she now has so much on her plate:
the golf tournament, a family wedding, the play and so forth.”

“Not to mention some unhappy
spirits and four murders,” he interrupted. “Please go on.”

“I remembered the two names she
mentioned – Jennifer Gray and Alice Mawson.”

“The first victim of the
Scottish Witchfinder General in the Borders and the last woman to
be tried as a witch hereabouts,” he clarified to jog his
memory.

“Yes, that’s right. Well,
Jennifer Gray, the widowed owner of Graymalkin, was denounced as a
witch by the local blacksmith, a man by the name of Dirk
Ardkinglas, a failed suitor. She endured horrific torture in her
own dungeon and died unrepentant. Graymalkin and the land that came
with it passed into the hands of the Ardkinglas family before being
sold off.”

“Sadly, that appears to be a
common feature of witch trials. Revenge, greed and unrequited love
coupled with the absolute power of a self-righteous misogynist
acting in God’s name are all that is needed to justify unspeakable
torture and unbearable suffering, but I don’t see the connection to
the present.”

“Neither do I. Graymalkin must
have passed through dozens of hands since then and now belongs to
me. I simply shudder that there but for the grace of time and tide,
go I.”

“What about the second
name?”

“Alice Mawson, the last witch
of the Borders, was denounced when the witch trials were on the
wane.”

“The public had probably grown
sick to death of torture.”

“Unlikely. Anyhow, Alice
Mawson, also a wealthy widow, owned all the farmland that surrounds
Cruddock Castle today. Her manor house stood on the site of Maw
Crag and was originally called Lammas Castle Farm. She was also
denounced by a member of the Ardkinglas clan after a milch cow went
dry. She was not tortured but tried in a court of law, found guilty
of bewitching the cow, and exiled. The interesting thing is that
the presiding judge was a man named Judge Cruddock. And even more
interesting, it was Judge Cruddock who ended up as the owner of her
estate after she trudged off to parts unknown.”

“I see,” he said thoughtfully,
stroking his beard. “The Cruddocks prospered at the expense of the
exiled widow who most likely forfeited her wealth in exchange for
her life. There is a connection, though it is tenuous at best. We
are talking about a century ago.”

“That’s the really interesting
part – the numeral 100.”

“I am still in the dark?”

“Do you recall the night of the
Ouija game when the tile pointed to 100 and you said it didn’t make
sense and Lady Moira responded with something like: that is because
you cannot yet understand it.”

“I still don’t.”

“The date of the witch trial
was the fifth of November 1799. The day of the wedding and the
conclusion of the tournament will coincide with the day Alice
Mawson was found guilty, relieved of her wealth and sent into exile
with nothing but the clothes on her back at the start of winter –
exactly 100 years ago.”

“A sad coincidence,” he
concluded dismally. “Though I am loath to dismiss any fact as
coincidence, this one is so tenuous it has faded into the
far-fetched mists of time. You don’t seriously believe anyone would
set out to avenge Mistress Alice after 100 years? And please don’t
answer that. It was rhetorical.”

“All right then,” she pouted,
“but one last thing before I rest my case. On our way to Edinburgh
we stopped at a coaching inn on the outskirts of the Cruddock
estate. Some children were building a huge bonfire and chanting:
Remember, remember, the fifth of November. It seems that the
far-fetched mists of time are still thriving in the Scottish
Borders.”

He burst out laughing. “That
rhyme has nothing to do with Alice Mawson. The children were
singing about Guy Fawkes. The fifth of November commemorates the
night he tried to blow up Parliament. In England he is a figure of
derision, a straw man to be burnt on the pyre, in these parts he is
a hero!”

Come midnight, and Dr Watson’s
robust guffaws continued to echo in her ears. The moon cast a
voyeuristic beam through the uncurtained glass and the wind rattled
the panes. The embers in the fire were dying. The Countess
attempted to resuscitate them with a handful of pine cones then
moved to the window and felt the breath catch in her throat.
Someone was hurrying across the footbridge, away from the castle,
moving awkwardly like a blackbird with its wings clipped. She
pressed her face to the misty glass and the blood froze in her
veins. At the end of the footbridge, the figure paused a moment
just as the moon sailed out from behind a cloud and that’s when she
saw that out of the hooded head grew a set of antlers! She thought
she might be dreaming and closed her eyes, counted to three, then
re-opened them – the antlers were still there!

Suddenly the figure looked back
at Graymalkin, directly up at her window, possibly attracted by the
reddish glow from the resuscitated fire. In a moment of sheer
terror, the Countess leapt back from the window, skidded on the rag
rug and crashed to the floor, thankfully landing on her derriere.
Her heart was thrashing and she was a mass of sweat despite the
chill. After a few short breaths, she crept gingerly to the window
and from behind a corner of the curtain peered out. But the
supernatural shape had been swallowed up by the shadows of the
night.

“I forgot to tell you that the
police constable from Duns arrived yesterday to examine the body of
Mr Brown,” said Dr Watson as they sat facing each other at the
breakfast table. “After a cursory inspection of the kitchen
courtyard and the dead body, the fool of a constable concluded that
death was due to suicide. There will be an inquest on the seventh
of November in Duns. Mr MacDuff will be summoned along with Mrs
Ardkinglas and young Robbie Fyfe. My presence will not be required
because a proper autopsy will be carried out by a surgeon who
specializes in such things for the police.”

The Countess barely heard a
word the doctor said. She was still thinking about what she had
seen during the night, or perhaps what she thought she had seen.
Antlers! Really! She must have been dreaming she was not dreaming!
The shadows of the night, the strain of the carriage journey, talk
of witches and the eerie presence of Jackdaw Wood - was enough to
fuel any number of nightmares.

“Is my hair all right,
madame?”

The Countess looked up quickly.
“I beg your pardon?”

Mrs Ross was standing in the
doorway, a pot of tea in her hands. “You keep staring at my hair,
madame. I wondered if there was something not right with it.”

Good grief! The Countess warned
herself to get a grip. “No, no, it’s fine. I was just thinking that
the way you have coiled it might suit me. It is very becoming, Mrs
Ross.”

“Thank you, madame.”

“What is wrong with you this
morning?” chided Dr Watson when they were alone in the breakfast
room once again. “I don’t believe you heard a word I said.”

“Of course I did. You were
talking about Mr Brown.”

“I moved on from that topic ten
minutes ago. I was talking about the dress rehearsal. If we don’t
get a move on we will arrive late and you know what that means. I
hope you haven’t forgotten we are staying the night at the castle.
Is twenty minutes enough time for you to gather any last minute
things? I instructed Fedir to have the bags in the landau ready for
nine o’clock. Where on earth is Xenia?” he finished with
exasperation.

Throughout the journey the
Countess could not shake the image of Mrs Ross with antlers growing
from her head. It was ridiculous, fanciful, mad, but there it
was!

Scene 1: Upon a heath.

Thunder and lightning. Enter
three witches.

The dramatic gestures and
exaggerated poses of Countess Volodymyrovna, Miss Lambert and Xenia
earned rare praise from Miss O’Hara. Encouraged, they hammed it up
even more. When Xenia’s voluminous hood flew back (supposedly from
a violent gust of wind) revealing the long blonde plait snaking
like a golden serpent down her back, Miss O’Hara clapped her hands
with glee.

“Bravo! Bravo!” she applauded.
“A nice touch! I have never witnessed such a perfect trio of
witches!” she lauded without a trace of irony. “Now for scene 2. A
smooth change of scenery Mr Ross! Well done! Can we have some
alarum – that means drums! Oh, wonderful! Perfect tempo! Good man,
Fedir!”

And so it went all morning.
Miss O’Hara was the only person in the audience, directing and
starring at the same time. Everyone else was either in their
dressing room or preparing to enter the stage via the vestry or
exiting the stage via the porch. Scene changes ran like clockwork
and Miss O’Hara was in a rare good mood that became quite
infectious. Even Carter earned praise for his manliness. And when
he and Miss O’Hara appeared on stage together as Lord and Lady
Macbeth, and breaths were tightly drawn with fear and trepidation,
it was a word-perfect triumph. What a pairing! A genuine
coup de
theatre
!

Everyone decamped in high
spirits to the glass conservatory where a buffet lunch had been
laid on in high style. Dr Watson was in the highest spirits of them
all. He had solved the problem of the mysterious poacher the moment
Carter-Macbeth appeared on stage wearing greasepaint, wrapped in a
cloak of grey and purple tartan. A little more greasepaint and his
skin would have taken on the tanned hue of a foreigner, or, as Ned
the woodchopper put it: a darkie. Going by that description, he had
suspected Mr Chandrapur of murdering Mr Brown, but the factotum had
no motive. But Mr Carter Dee did.

All that the good doctor needed
to establish was opportunity and he had his murderer ready to hand
over at the inquest. He pictured another
coup de theatre
with himself as the star and his chest swelled.

“A penny for your
thoughts?”

Dr Watson was jolted out of his
moment of self-applause. “I beg your pardon?”

“You were looking rather
pleased with yourself, Uncle John. I wondered what had ushered in
such an engaging smile.”

Miss Lambert was lunching with
Mr Hamish Ross at a wrought iron table positioned in a corner of
the conservatory, half-hidden by a plethora of potted palms,
tropical ferns and exotic orchids. “Please join us,” she invited,
indicating the third chair, asking him again about his smile.

Dr Watson felt a bit like a
third wheel as he sat down. “I was feeling relieved that the full
dress rehearsal went so well,” he lied. “I hope it all goes equally
well tonight.”