The Lammas Curse (30 page)

Dr Watson grated out an unkind
laugh. “The other two will not best the Dees no matter how many
chances they get! Mr Bancoe concedes all is lost. You saw him at
breakfast yesterday. He all but admitted it was hopeless. He
doesn’t even want to play. It is another charade being staged for
the benefit of Miss O’Hara’s paramour!”

“You don’t think it is being
staged for the benefit of publicity?”

“That is a good point that Miss
Dee mooted at breakfast. Miss O’Hara may have initiated it in the
interests of her lover and his lordship may secretly acknowledge it
in his heart of hearts though publicly disputing it, but he is not
as stupid as he appears. Despite his drinking he is still an astute
businessman who understands that we are on the cusp of a new
century where the power of promotion will be paramount to the
success of an enterprise. If he has a host of reporters on his
doorstep and he wants to milk them for all they’re worth, why ever
not?”

The Countess came to sit by the
fire. She ran her finger over her lips as she tried to order her
thoughts but all she could think was that her lips felt dry from
the extreme cold and exposure to the elements. “You realize that if
we expose the Dees as murderers then Mr Bancoe and Mr Larssensen
will win the tournament by default.”

He sank into an adjacent
armchair. “So be it! It happens! And what is the alternative? We
let two murderers win? Is that what you are suggesting?”

“We do not know for certain
they are murderers.” A moment of doubt crept up on the Countess.
What if MacBee had been lying about the whole thing? Besides,
MacBee had only witnessed the first murder and deduced from that
event that her darlings committed the other crimes. But the theft
of the tiara suggested that there was more than one crime happening
here, which suggested there was more than one criminal or pair of
criminals. “There are a few unanswered questions.”

“Such as? And don’t say the
tiara. It is a mere sideshow. The likely culprit is Mr Chandrapur
acting on behalf of the Rajah with the blessing of his lordship to
avoid admitting he is selling it in order to avoid bankruptcy. That
is why he is not bothered by the theft.”

His pronouncement made
surprising sense and turned her train of thought on its head. “Very
well, let us forget the tiara for the moment. There is Mr
MacDuff.”

“MacDuff?”

“You said yourself he was no
caddy.”

The doctor’s mouth puckered,
pulled to left and right, then straightened itself out. “I concede
there is a cloud hanging over him. But it may not necessarily be
sinister. He may be an interloper - one of those men who try to
ingratiate themselves with a famous person or event for the sake of
big-noting themselves. That would explain his over-helpfulness with
regards to Mr Brown’s murder. And twice I came across him in the
golf pavilion on the days when he was not caddying. He was
polishing Lord Cruddock’s clubs. It seemed a bit pathetic. I felt
sorry for him.”

“I suppose he might be hoping
to gain employment once the Lammermoor Golf Club takes off.”

“Yes, nothing sinister in
that.” He pushed to his feet and tossed another log on the fire.
“What other unanswered questions do you have?”

There were so many she didn’t
know where to start, but they were all so vague. And she wasn’t
sure they were related to the four deaths. There was the matter of
the stolen antlers, but if she told him he would probably laugh in
her face. There was the number 100 but he had already dismissed it
as too far back in the mists of time to matter. There was the tea
trade swindle and revenge best served cold but was it relevant?
There was Lady Moira’s weird rhyme about birds during the séance
but what did it mean? There was MacBee’s portentous threat against
Lady Moira at the end of the play, or was it more of a desperate
plea? There was the white fluff on the doctor’s sleeve but what did
it have to do with the missing tiara? There was the orderly line of
golf bags in the pavilion. What was it that disturbed her eye about
one of the bags? There were the five bodkins. Why five? There was
the map shaped like a tree that Mrs Ross was keen for her not to
see. There was the fact Lord Cruddock and the ghillie were on a par
regarding legitimacy, or should that be illegitimacy? There was Mr
Chandrapur dropping the cup of tea at breakfast. Why did such a
small thing seem significant?

The Countess clutched her head
in frustration. Was any of it relevant? Or was it all just a
meaningless sideshow, a historic distraction, a maddening jumble of
coincidences? Was she too clever for her own good? Reading too much
into things? Looking for answers to questions that had no answers
because they weren’t even questions to begin with?

Right now the inside of her
head felt like a game of Ouija with letters of the alphabet
arranged haphazardly, random questions being voiced and answers
being spelled out that didn’t make sense, a letter here, a blank
space there, a number, and then just when she was beginning to
discern a pattern, the whole thing being up-turned, thrown into
disarray.

“None,” she sighed forlornly.
“I have no other questions. But promise me you will not hand the
Dees over to the police until the end of the golf tournament.”

“I don’t like to make promises
like that,” he said gruffly though his tone was less blunt and less
hostile than before. He was yielding.

“Promise me,” she pleaded
softly.

“Catherine Dee must have gotten
under your skin,” he needled unfairly.

“Perhaps,” she conceded,
wincing inwardly, yielding a little herself, “but I think it is
important that we give it more time.”

“Why? What good will it
serve?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted
ruefully. “But there is nothing to be done today. Tomorrow you will
caddy one last time and then we will go to dinner at the
castle.”

“Oh, yes,” he remembered, “the
wedding eve dinner.”

“I would like to question Lord
Cruddock and the Rajah in private about the missing tiara tomorrow
night.”

“Be discrete, for goodness
sake. We don’t want the Dees to get the wind up and bolt. And we
don’t need another murder!”

She dismissed his melodramatic
concerns. “I am a model of discretion. Besides, I don’t think you
want to throw the wedding into disarray by arresting the niece and
nephew of Lord Cruddock on the eve of the big event.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Yes,
we want to be damn sure we have our facts right. Two more days
cannot hurt. Very well,” he promised, hoping he would not live to
regret his decision.

Dr Watson and Countess
Volodymyrovna arrived unfashionably early for the wedding eve
dinner at Cruddock Castle. The pontifical butler showed them into
the drawing room and offered them a drink while they waited for the
others to join them. He explained that Miss Dee and her brother
were in the music room; Mr Bancoe and Mr Larssensen were in the
billiard room; Lord Cruddock and the Rajah of Govinda were in his
lordship’s private sanctum; Miss O’Hara was in her boudoir; and
Lady Moira, Miss Lambert and Judge Cruddock had not yet arrived
from Mawgate Lodge.

The Countess’s ears pricked at
the name. “Judge Cruddock?”

The butler popped a cork on a
bottle of French bubbly for the Countess and poured a whiskey and
water for the doctor. “Judge Lennox Cruddock is Lord Cruddock’s
father’s cousin. He arrived a day ahead of the wedding as he had to
travel all the way from Glasgow and needed time to recuperate from
the journey. He has opted to stay at Mawgate Lodge as he does not
enjoy large gatherings since becoming slightly deaf. Moreover, his
Scottie dog has become aggressive in old age and tends to snap at
anyone who makes a fuss. Last year Nessie bit Lady Trefoyles on the
hand, nipped the Countess of Lomond on the ankle and sank some
fangs into his lordship’s leg. Nessie has also become incontinent
and tends to leave puddles in inappropriate places. Miss O’Hara
complained that all her shoes smelled of urine during Nessie’s last
visit. Three pairs of silk court shoes had to be burned as the
ammonia smell could not be shifted despite the housemaid’s best
efforts,” he finished sniffily.

As soon as the Countess tossed
back her champagne she announced she was going to storm the inner
sanctum. Rather than being left to his own devices, Dr Watson
decided to join the two unlucky golfers in the billiard room. They
had not out-scored the Dees that morning despite being granted an
extra round and were probably drowning their sorrows while sinking
some balls on a less hazardous green.

Halfway across the alabaster
hall the Countess bumped into the Rajah. He was on his way to the
drawing room, having been informed by his factotum that the
Countess had arrived. She promptly steered him into the library and
closed the door. He thought he might be in luck – a bird in the
hand and all that - but quickly discovered otherwise. There was no
time to beat about the bush let alone fondle any plumage.

“You did not appear concerned
by the theft of the tiara?” she stated boldly without preamble.

“Oh, that,” he said
dismissively, helping himself to a cigar from the humidor, “no, it
did not unduly worry me.”

“May I hazard a guess?”

He shrugged his shoulders as he
lit his cigar using a faggot from the fire. “Certainly.”

“You instructed your factotum
to steal the tiara with his lordship’s blessing so that he did not
have to explain to his wife and mother that he had sold it to you
because he is bankrupt.”

The Rajah blew a furl of smoke
into the darksome air and laughed. “A cunning plan! I grant you
that. I wish I had thought of it. It might have been much less
costly. Alas! Not at all. I do not know who stole the tiara but I
do know it was not my factotum at my behest.”

The Countess looked
crestfallen. “But, in that case, why are you not more concerned?
The Govinda diamond: a family heirloom…”

“And a fake.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The tiara that was stolen was
a fake.”

“I see, but that begs the
question - where is the real one?”

“It is in Lord Cruddock’s
private study. I have seen it with my own eyes and can attest that
the diamonds are real, including the magnificent jewel in the crown
– the Govinda.”

“But what happens when the
thief discovers he has a fake tiara in his possession?”

“Or her.”

“What?”

“You are presuming the thief is
a man.”

“Yes, yes, I guess so.”

“A thief is hardly likely to
make a fuss and complain the tiara he or she has stolen is a fake.
I think we can safely assume no one except the thief will know
there was a fake at all, which is unfortunate for his lordship
since he was hoping to fool his wife and mother for many years to
come. But as soon as the bride makes an appearance wearing the real
tiara, the thief will know the one in his possession is a fake, and
when the real tiara goes with me back to its rightful home in India
his lordship will then have some explaining to do. By the by, it is
not merely a priceless heirloom, it is more than that. It is a
talisman, an amulet, an omen of luck and power and divine right.
When I return with the Govinda diamond in my grasp the uprising in
my homeland will be quelled and peace will be restored.”

“Who knew Lord Cruddock had a
fake tiara?”

“Discounting the Jew who
manufactured it, two people – his lordship and myself.”

“What about your devoted
half-brother?”

The Rajah shook his head as his
hand drifted to the jewelled dagger at his side.

No love lost there!

“I need to speak to Lord
Cruddock in private,” she declared as she whirled out the door.

There was no time to lose
before everyone drifted to the drawing room and her absence would
be noticed. Without bothering to knock she pushed open the door to
the sanctum at the top of the spiral staircase. It was a small
hexagonal chamber, darkly panelled. Lord Cruddock was seated in a
tapestried wing chair behind an old desk, slumped on his elbows,
his head supported in his hands. On the desk was a bottle of
whiskey and a glass, one was half full, the other was half empty.
He looked like a man who had reached the end of his tether, not a
bridegroom on the eve of his wedding to a ravishing beauty. The
depth of his despair would make it easier to dispense with
courtesies and falsehoods.

“Where is the real tiara?”

Startled, he looked up quickly
then swore under his breath. “That bloody darkie! He can’t keep his
mouth shut! Close the door and keep your voice down!”

She closed the door and
repeated the question in a lowered tone.

“Not that it is any business of
yours, Countess Volodymyrovna,” he ground out harshly, sounding
each syllable of her name with a disapproving timbre, “but since
you ask so politely, it is in a secret compartment directly behind
the large oil painting of Cruddock Castle executed by Septimus
Decimus Cox. But let me draw your attention to the smaller painting
on the opposite wall – Lammas Castle Farm, an unprepossessing
structure much like Graymalkin, yet solid as a rock. Gothic revival
decoration is like icing on a wedding cake. Underneath the icing
you will find the thick cake batter and in the yeasty mix studded
with raisins and dates, dozens of secret chambers and priest’s
holes.”

“Who knows it is hidden
there?”

“Just me and that bloody
darkie!”

“And your mother?”

“Absolutely not!” he said
fiercely.

“Your future wife?”

“No!” he repudiated
explosively. “And I take umbrage at the inference.”

The Countess paced to the
lancet window and perched herself on the mullioned window ledge,
giving him a moment to contain his intemperance. “What I fail to
understand is that if you had a fake tiara of such excellent
quality as to fool your fiancé for weeks and a host of eagle-eyed
reporters and photographers for several hours why did you not allow
the Rajah to take the real one as soon as the deal was struck. Why
the delay? Why the pretence?”