The Lammas Curse (28 page)

“Have you ever heard anything
more ludicrous?” expounded Mr Dee. “As if a thief would go to all
the effort of stealing a priceless tiara and then deciding that a
golf course might be a good place to bury it!”

“The world has gone mad!”
huffed Miss Dee. “First, god-father granting that extra round and
now this!”

“Quite!” said her brother.

Countess Volodymyrovna lent a
sympathetic ear to the litany of ludicrous goings-on, looking from
sister to brother and back again as they listed ever more gripes -
and one thing struck her with potent force.

“Lord Cruddock appears to be
taking the theft of the tiara seriously then?”

“How do you mean?” asked Miss
Dee.

“Well, he didn’t appear too
perturbed this morning.”

Brother and sister looked
briefly at each other, as if to the read each other’s minds, and
then turned back to the Countess, nodding in simultaneous
agreement.

“You’re right,” said Miss Dee.
“God-father didn’t seem too bothered.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr Dee, “he
didn’t seem at all worried.”

“Yet now it seems he has pulled
out all stops,” mused the Countess. “I wonder why?”

“Probably for the benefit of
Scotland Yard,” offered Miss Dee spitefully.

“Yes,” slated her brother, “he
doesn’t want to look like a hopeless jackass.”

“It is one thing to be led by
the nose by his fiancé in private,” remarked his sister scathingly,
“but another to have the world know it.”

The sitting room door opened
suddenly and Dr Watson appeared. His face fell when he saw they had
company. He had been having a nap in his room, he explained as he
joined them, painfully aware that it was too late to execute a
retreat, much to his chagrin.

The Dees recounted once more
all the ludicrous goings-on at Cruddock Castle for the benefit of
the doctor, adding that they had walked around the long way, past
the hotel, since the golf course was out of bounds, and finishing
with the fact that this was their first visit to Graymalkin. They
had often seen it from the outside, but had not had the opportunity
to set foot inside. The Countess immediately offered to give them a
guided tour. It was not too large, she said, and they would be
finished by the time Mrs Ross conjured up some buttered crumpets
and a pot of tea.

The Dees seemed especially
amused by the dungeon’s grisly trappings and marvelled at the view
of the golf course from the ramparts at the top of the tower.

Afterwards, they made up a
foursome and played ecarté until it was time to return to the
castle. Horace harnessed the landau for the return journey as a
vanguard of clouds heralded rain. Dr Watson and the Countess waved
them off.

“I think Carter Dee is our
murderer,” said the doctor in a level tone devoid of emotion and
sensation as the landau disappeared behind some trees.

“When did you decide this?”

“Yesterday, during the dress
rehearsal,” he said with conviction. “I knew it as soon as Carter
appeared on stage wearing greasepaint and a cloak of grey and
purple tartan. The poacher who was seen lurking in the wood the day
Mr Brown was murdered had dark skin and wore a grey and purple
tartan cloak. I assumed it was Mr Chandrapur when Ned used the word
darkie
but I now believe it was Carter slathered in extra
greasepaint. I think he murdered the first three golfers too.”

“Motive?”

“I have been giving it some
thought and I’m glad you asked. The first murder may have been a
case of eliminating the competition but our murderer got a taste
for murder and it soon got out of hand. There are parallels to the
Scottish play that may even have spurred the imagination of the
murderers. Catherine and Carter Dee are extremely ambitious, as
were Lord and Lady Macbeth. As for the murder of Mr Brown - it may
have been a case of blackmail. Mr MacDuff suggested that Mr Brown
may have arranged to meet someone in the kitchen courtyard. The
kitchen staff were conveniently absent that day so it was a perfect
spot to have a clandestine meeting, otherwise why not meet in the
hotel sitting room or on the terrace. It is quite possible Mr Brown
was attempting to blackmail the Dees. He may have seen something
untoward regarding one of the earlier murders.”

“Mmm,” responded the Countess
with a nod of her head, much to the doctor’s delight, saving him
the trouble of arguing his case with more vigour. “Did you remember
to follow-up with Mr MacDuff about the broom and the cellar
key?”

The doctor nodded in the
affirmative. “He claimed not to have noticed the broom down the
well but agreed it could have been the instrument that caused the
injury to the back of the neck. As for the key, he said he left it
in the pocket of his jacket when he went to bed that night. The
jacket was hanging on the back of his chair. The only time it was
out of his sight was when he went to the bathroom in the morning to
take his bath, trim his beard and use the latrine.”

“Enough time for MacBee to
borrow the key, open the cellar, excise the wart from Mr Brown’s
hand and return the key to the pocket.”

Siblings will often share a
common characteristic: Eye colour, hair colour, shape of nose, etc.
Sometimes the feature will be attractive: dimples, a cleft chin, an
upturned mouth. Sometimes it will be unfortunate: a long nose, a
thick neck, sticking-out ears. And sometimes it will be a curious
little defect that is hardly noticeable unless you see both
siblings together at the same time and have an uninterrupted period
of time in which to observe for it. During the game of ecarté the
Countess’s eyes were drawn to the fact the Dees shared a curious
little defect.

As soon as Dr Watson had taken
himself off to Cruddock Castle, caddying one last time for Mr
Bancoe, the Countess wrapped herself up and took herself off to
Jackdaw Wood. She soon located the spot where the trees had been
felled in the storm and followed the path of destruction to the
door of a small dwelling.

This dwelling was not a sturdy,
stone, crofter’s hut or a quaint, gingerbread cottage with thatched
eaves. If was windowless and could have been mistaken for a
dilapidated bird-hide. Most likely it had originally provided
shelter for the gamekeeper and his underkeepers during periods of
stormy weather. The only thing that stopped it being blown away was
the fact it was tucked into a dense clump of furze and bracken
which appeared to be holding it together.

MacBee anticipated her
approach. “Don’t bother knocking, dearie. The door will fall down.
I have put the kettle to the fire. Enter.”

The broken door creaked on
rusty hinges and the Countess entered warily to find MacBee
stirring a cracked Toby teapot ready for pouring.

The interior hinted at a
primitive existence. A hole in the roof allowed smoke from a fire
set into an earthen floor to vent, albeit with moderate success. A
straw pallet served as a bed. On top of the bed was a large,
lumpen, knobbly thing covered with a grey wool blanket. The shape
was odd. Not quite human, not quite animal. The mind boggled. A
pine table and three stools accounted for the rest of the
furniture, and the number was telling.

The Countess waited until
MacBee had poured the tea into chipped cups. The old hag sat
hunched over the table with her bony fingers wrapped around the
steaming hot cup, and it was the hands that prompted the opening
line.

“Why do they call you Mad
Mother MacBee?”

The old hag eyed her
suspiciously from under hooded lids. “Because I am mad, dearie.
Drink up. It is dandelion and nettle tea - good for the
complexion!”

“You are no more mad than I,
though you do put on a good performance, I grant you that,
especially that first time I met you in the wood.”

MacBee gave a cackle and gulped
some tea.

“No, it is not your madness
that draws me here today. I was wondering about the rest of your
name,” pursued the Countess, carefully sipping her brew and hoping
it was not
root of hemlock digg’d in the dark,
though both
cups had been poured from the same pot and MacBee was drinking
confidently. “Why call you Mother?”

MacBee shrugged carelessly and
tilted her head. “Who knows why anything is so-called, dearie?”

“Could it be that you
are
a mother?”

MacBee put her hand to her ear
as if she heard a noise and aimed a glance at the door. “Knock,
knock, who’s there? In the devil’s name –? Knock, knock, who goes
there? Is it Beelzebub? This place is too cold for hell. Knock,
knock. Enter the brindled cat, Harpier, tis time, tis time…”

“Stop it! You are trying to
distract me, confound me, but it is futile. I know your
secret.”

MacBee’s bushy brows drew down
darkly. “How do you know? Who told you? They are liars! All of
them! Especially Hecate!”

“No one told me. I surmised it
for myself.”

“Liar!” she screamed.

The Countess remained calm to
counter the high-pitched hysteria. “Some traits run in families.
Twins, for instance.”

MacBee threw back her head and
cawed raucously. “You draw a long bow, dearie. Twins are common
enough. Two’s a pair and all’s fair!”

“Yes, yes, I grant you, but
some traits are less common than others and some so rare that when
they are shared by siblings they draw the eye. And when a complete
stranger shares that same trait it makes one wonder at the
weirdness of the world.” The Countess sipped her tea and stared at
the bent and bony fingers with dirty nails wrapped around the
chipped cup. “It is odd that Catherine and Carter Dee should share
the same crooked pinky as a spinster who lives all alone in Jackdaw
Wood.”

MacBee didn’t say anything for
a few moments and the Countess did not rush her.

“Yes, damn you to hell!” the
old lady cursed fiercely. “They were born out of wedlock to
Crawford Dee. Is that what you wanted to hear? Well, now you have
it!”

The Countess should have felt
triumphant but her eyes darted to the strange shape under the
blanket. She still couldn’t figure out what it was. And the
suspense of not knowing was tormenting her. “Will you tell me the
story, Mother?” she prompted in a kind voice.

MacBee expelled a hard breath.
“A common enough story to begin: I was twenty-five years of age and
unmarried. It was his last night in Scotland before going off to
make his fortune in South Africa. I threw in my job as housemaid at
Cruddock Castle before I began to show and went to live at
Graymalkin with my sister who was housekeeper there. The laird who
owned it never used it. It was too cold, too old, too cramped - it
suited us well. She was raising Hamish, his lordship’s bastard, and
had changed her name to Mrs Ross to make it seem as if she had been
widowed. I kept with the family name - MacBee. It did not bother me
what people said behind our backs. Three years later Crawford Dee,
quite the rich gentleman, returned for a visit to Cruddock Castle.
He had a chit of a wife in tow, a pretty little thing, rich, pale,
sickly and childless. The night before they departed for South
Africa he tricked me into meeting him here in the wood, to see his
children for the first time, he said, but his lady wife came too.
She died of fever on the return trip – serves her right! Anyway,
they overpowered me and stole the twins. I must have hit my head
when I fell. My sister found me wandering, dazed and raving, some
days later. When I realized what had happened I went mad with
grief. Oh, do not doubt the power of madness. I fell ill with brain
fever and was sick for a long time. Days turned into weeks and
weeks into years. My sister nursed me all that time. But the black
dog of despair had taken hold of me and she could do nothing to
wrench me from its slavering jaws. Eventually, I came to live here
in this godforsaken place where God had forsaken me. Everyone
called me mad but I didn’t care. I played up to it. It suited me.
Maybe I was mad. Yes, I admit I was. Maybe I still am. Yes, at
night when I am all alone and I hear the mournful wind and the
clouds shedding bitter tears I feel quite mad. Mad Mother
MacBee!”

“How did you feel when your
children returned to live at Cruddock Castle?”

“Lo and behold! My darling
children!” She began melodramatically, breathing heavily, before
switching to a detached tone, like that of a narrator. “But they do
not know their mother. They have been fed lies - told their mother
died on the birthing bed - and what will they do with the truth?
How could they love a filthy hag? Who wants a mother who is
penniless and mad?”

“They still don’t know?”

She shook her frowzy head and
came back to herself. “They have ambition. They can be famous.
Carter - an actor on the Shakespearean stage. You saw his
performance. He is born to it. And Catherine a golfer – the first
woman to turn professional! Destiny has marked them out for
greatness. I cannot allow Truth to ham-string a brilliant future. I
want what is best for them.”

If the Countess had any doubts
about MacBee’s narrative or her own deductive abilities they were
dispelled in that moment. Solomon could not have devised more
fitting proof of maternal self-sacrifice. She pressed on quickly
before the moment was lost.

“That is why you put the Wicca
symbols at the scene of the murders - to draw attention away from
them to you?”

It was wild surmise, an
impression formed from snippets, a bit of female intuition wrapped
in inspiration that had been forming in the back of the Countess’s
mind for some time. It hit a raw nerve.

MacBee nodded before thinking,
admitting her guilt, and also that of her children. It was too late
to backtrack. She had implicated all three. But it was clear she
wanted to unburden herself too. She had bottled up the truth for so
long it had nearly sent her stark raving mad.