The Lammas Curse (25 page)

No sooner had she reached the
spot where the stately stairs met the landing than she spotted a
slender wraith wending her way upward and leapt back into Robbie’s
niche. It was Miss Lambert with a glass of warm milk. She knew the
milk was warm because a cloth was wrapped around the glass to stop
it scalding. Miss Lambert had probably been down to the kitchen to
warm it up for Lady Moira. Yes, the young woman entered the first
room to the left of the landing – a prime position for a bedroom
and presumably the dowager’s former boudoir.

She waited until the door
closed then proceeded to the vestibule where several passages
intersected and where a narrow spiral staircase led to the tower
where his lordship had his private study. Male voices filtered
down. She paused to listen and recognized Lord Cruddock’s slurred
baritone and the deep huskiness of the Rajah. They were conducting
a late night meeting. She moved on.

The west wing with its dearth
of windows was darker and more masculine, suits of medieval armour
abounded. She was almost to the threshold of Dr Watson’s bedchamber
when she heard a noise that sounded like a door opening and closing
and took shelter behind a shiny knight with sword in hand. As she
held her breath a figure crept past her. It was Mr Bancoe wearing a
baggy red dressing gown, mismatched golfing socks and a ridiculous
bed cap with a pom-pom. He was creeping soundlessly toward the
bachelors’ stairs that led directly to the billiard room.

Was no one asleep!

The one person she expected to
encounter in her nocturnal wandering was Mr Chandrapur, but the
shadow cat was nowhere to be seen. Could it be that he was tucked
up into bed for once? Or was he hiding in the dark, watching,
waiting…all-seeing yet unseen?

Dr Watson did not believe in
locking his door unless necessary. She let herself in and guided by
grunts and snorts proceeded to the four-poster to give him a gentle
shake.

“What the deuce!” he gagged,
flailing his arms in an effort to fend off the assassin disguised
in a bear suit.

“Hush!” she chided as she
clicked on a bedside lamp and pushed back her fur hood to reveal a
cascade of brunette tresses. “Calm down.”

He fell back on the pillow with
a groan and pulled the blankets back over his head. “Turn off that
blasted light! And go away!”

“I came to speak to you about
Mad Mother MacBee.”

“Forget MacBee! You’re the one
who’s mad! Get thee gone, woman!”

His rebuke was a mere
bagatelle. Her armour of self-esteem was impenetrable, her measure
of self-importance limitless and her determination undaunted.

“I think there is going to be
another murder tonight.”

That brought him round. He
lowered the blanket and hoisted himself onto his elbows. He was
wearing flannel pyjamas with grey and red stripes. “All right, I’m
listening. Did you get wind of some plot?”

“Not exactly.”

“Did you overhear something
sinister?”

“No.”

“Did you see something
suspicious?”

“Not really. Not unless you
count all the people creeping about as we speak.”

“What people?”

“Mr Dee. Mr Larssensen. Miss
O’Hara. Miss Lambert. Mr Bancoe. I won’t count myself. I think
you’re the only one who’s actually sleeping. Lord Cruddock and the
Rajah are in his lordship’s private study discussing something.
Lady Moira is drinking warm milk. And Miss Dee is entertaining her
brother in her bedroom.”

“In case you failed to notice,”
he pointed out acerbically, “I’m not sleeping either! I’m
entertaining you!”

“Keep your voice down,” she
warned, perching on the side of his bed and pulling her fur cloak
around her knees. “Need I remind you we are not on vacation and
that the previous deaths remain unresolved and that the situation
grows more dire by the day as we draw ever closer to the fifth of
November? I have a terrible feeling there will be another murder
this very night.”

“Very well,” he heaved through
gritted teeth. “Who do you think will be murdered?”

“Lady Moira.”

He was still half asleep and
didn’t say anything for several long moments while he pondered the
possibility, recalling MacBee’s cryptic speech which had clearly
been directed at Hecate the queen of witches. “You think MacBee
will attempt to murder Lady Moira?”

The Countess raked some fingers
through her cascading tresses and frowned. “Yes and no. Something
doesn’t sit right. What struck me during her speech was the
coherent malevolence of her tone. It did not have a mad or
hysterical ring to it. In the woods she sounded insane, but tonight
she sounded the opposite. I began to wonder if she had dramatised
the part of a mad hag for my benefit. Then I wondered if she might
do that for the benefit of others too – to keep them out of Jackdaw
Wood. Who would want to have an encounter with Mad Mother MacBee?
But this is the truly puzzling part – her well-rehearsed soliloquy
did not sound like a death threat but an inducement to
self-murder.”

“Are you sure
you
are
not dramatising? What struck me was that she was able to enter and
exit the castle without being spotted. So much for security! But
self-murder! Really! Lady Moira struck me as a woman who is not
open to suggestion unless it is from the spirit world.”

The Countess pursed her lips.
“I admit it seems unlikely. But the other thing that struck me was
the mention of 100 years of wrong. There is no denying it is a
reference to Alice Mawson.”

“MacBee is hardly likely to
avenge herself on Lady Moira for something that happened 100 years
ago. And remember it was the Cruddocks who were in the wrong. Lady
Moira married into the family. She cannot be held accountable.”

The Countess sighed wearily.
“You are the voice of reason, Dr Watson. I allowed my imagination
to get the better of me – and not for the first time since we
arrived I am sorry to say. I think I am frustrated by our lack of
progress. There are so many loose ends I don’t know which one to
pick up as I run from one to another tying myself in knots.”

“Go back to bed,” he said,
suppressing a yawn. “You will feel better in the morning and things
will seem clearer then too. The middle of the night is never a good
time to tap into logic. It is a time for tapping into dreams.
Especially when that night is Hallowe’en.”

Everyone tapped late into their
dreams after their midnight meanderings. It was ten o’clock before
the Countess, who prided herself on being an early riser, surfaced
for breakfast. The first face she looked for when she entered the
dining room was Lady Moira’s, and she felt more than a touch
worried when she saw that neither the dowager nor Miss Lambert was
present.

Lord Cruddock and the Rajah
were seated at opposite ends of the large mahogany table. Mr
Chandrapur was serving the Rajah some scrambled eggs and black
sausage from the sideboard.

“Another cup of tea,” directed
the Rajah to his factotum, “and make sure the tea does not spill
into the saucer when you stir the sugar.”

Lord Cruddock was instructing
the maid to take some breakfast on a tray upstairs to his fiancé.
“Miss O’Hara does not eat kedgeree for breakfast,” he reminded in
clipped tones. “Some toast with marmalade and a pot of Earl Grey
and make sure to put a vase of flowers on the tray. You will find
several vases in the library. Choose something small and pretty
with blooms that have not wilted overnight.”

Mr Larssensen was eating with
gusto, looking rather pleased with himself. Mr Bancoe was looking
dour, frowning at his haggis. And the Dees were looking murderous,
staring darkly at each other. You could cut the air with a
knife.

“Good-morning,” greeted the
Countess cheerily as she took her seat and the butler hurried
across with a pot of her favourite breakfast tea. “The Scottish
play was a great success,” she commented airily before lying
through her teeth. “I fell into bed and slept like the dead.”

No one replied to her bit of
banter and it soon became clear that their minds were on something
else, something that had taken place either during the night or in
the early hours of the morning, something that was about to become
clear.

“You cannot change the rules at
this late stage,” protested Miss Dee, looking beseechingly at her
god-father as she moved a forkful of sausage around her plate.

“It is my tournament, young
lady. I can change the rules at any stage I like.”

“But it is unfair,” whined
Carter Dee in support of his beleaguered sister.

“What is unfair,” cut in Mr
Larssensen somewhat righteously, “is playing a golf tournament
between four deaths and a dramatic performance of Shakespeare. It
is only right that his lordship has taken the decision this morning
to allow Mr Bancoe and myself to play one more round of eighteen
holes.”

“But I have packed my bags,”
interposed Mr Bancoe gloomily, leaning on his elbows. “I was
planning to leave straight after breakfast.”

Mr Larssensen turned sharply.
“It was your caddy who was killed,” he reminded forcefully. “You
were at a massive disadvantage without a caddy, and that
well-meaning doctor was hardly a suitable substitute. It was most
unfair to be handicapped in such a way. It is only right that his
lordship has granted us one last chance. Fair is fair!”

“Oh, piffle!” scoffed Miss Dee.
“This has nothing to do with fairness. This is about milking
publicity. The reporters and photographers will need something to
keep them occupied until the wedding day so that they don’t
high-tail it back from whence they came!”

“And we all know who convinced
god-father to change his mind,” added Mr Dee.

“I admit Miss O’Hara
intervened,” conceded Lord Cruddock gruffly. “She is well-versed in
matters regarding publicity as we all witnessed last night.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr Dee snidely.
“But who stands to benefit from this current intervention?”

He aimed an Arctic eye directly
at Mr Larssensen and it didn’t take much brainpower to work out
that Miss O’Hara had worked her interventionist magic for the sake
of her lover.

Lord Cruddock slammed his fist
on the table in a fit of distemper. “What are you implying, young
man?”

“Nothing,” mumbled Mr Dee,
hands shaking as he brought his teacup to his lips to moisten
chapped lips. “Nothing at all, god-father,” he back-tracked swiftly
- noting the unhealthy royal purple flush.

It was at this moment that Dr
Watson arrived. He quickly spotted the storm cloud hanging over the
table and went straight to the sideboard for a cup of strong black
coffee though he rarely drank the stuff so early in the day and
actually preferred tea.

Mr Bancoe broke the tension. “I
don’t really want to play another round of golf. You can count me
out. I still plan to leave straight after breakfast.” He turned to
his player-partner. “You’re on your own, Lars. Good luck, old chap.
I must get home to the family.”

The Viking frothed and
spluttered. “But you don’t have any family! You’re not
married!”

Mr Bancoe gulped some tea the
wrong way and coughed violently, his voice was raw and hoarse. “I
was referring to my old mother in Aberdeen. She has been sickly all
year and I don’t like to leave her on her own for too long.”

“But you’re contracted until
the fifth of November,” argued the Viking.

“That’s right,” threatened Lord
Cruddock, anxious to avoid any new negative publicity. “If you pull
out you forfeit your fee.”

“And for me to play you must
play too,” pleaded the Viking, placing tragic emphasis on the
too
. “It is all or nothing. The two of us together. You
cannot run off now!”

Mr Bancoe pushed to his feet
with nervous abruptness, almost knocking over his own teacup. “I’m
sorry, Lars, but you are on your own.” He turned to his host and
lifted his chin, not belligerently, but bravely and honourably.
“Your generosity and hospitality has been most heartening, your
lordship, but my mind is made up. I will forgo my fee if you insist
on it. This tournament has been a nightmare from start to finish
and my nerves have suffered, yes, suffered. When Mr Brown was found
dead I was ready to pack up and go home, but I stayed on for the
sake of my golfing partner and because of the Scottish play which
has always been my favourite and because it was a high honour to
grace the same stage as Miss O’Hara, but I cannot stay a moment
longer. I must take my leave for the sake of my jangled nerves. I
bid you all farewell.”

A wave of inexpressible relief
carried him swiftly to the door where the maid who had been tasked
with arranging the breakfast tray for Miss O’Hara crashed straight
into him. The dour Scot caught the flustered girl by the shoulders
to steady her, then in a flurry of embarrassment, hastened from the
room.

“Sir! Sir!” the maid stammered,
addressing herself to his lordship, forgetting to curtsey. “The
glass case in the library has been broken! The tiara has gone!”

Several things happened in
swift succession.

The maid remembered to
curtsey.

Lord Cruddock and the Rajah
exchanged surreptitious glances.

Mr Chandrapur dropped a china
teacup full of carefully stirred tea and sugar.

Miss Dee blasphemed and Mr Dee
uttered a profanity.

Mr Larssensen mopped up his
runny eggs with a tranche of bread and gobbled it down.

Dr Watson and Countess
Volodymyrovna sprang to their feet and rushed from the room
simultaneously.

They were the first into the
library. Shards of glass littered the rug in front of the
fireplace. The fire poker was lying among the shards. It didn’t
take much deduction to ascertain how the thief had broken the
glass. The other curios were still in place. The only thing missing
was the tiara.