The Lammas Curse (7 page)

He was about to start
re-reading the letter when the door to the compartment began to
rattle. Someone was trying to gain entry. Hastily he folded the
paper into quarters and shoved it back into his pocket.

“Why on earth did you lock the
door?” quizzed the Countess, tone tinged with chagrin, as soon as
the door rolled back.

“I was going to grab forty
winks,” he lied, thinking on his feet, “and I wasn’t expecting you
to return quite so soon. I gather Miss Dee grated on you just as
much as she grated on me.”

“
Au contraire, mon ami
!
Nous allons bien
. I am just going to freshen up in the
bathroom and then I shall head straight back to the saloon car.
Miss Dee and I have discovered we have much in common. It is
astonishing how many likes and dislikes we share. We could be
kindred spirits.”

“Really?” he said
sceptically.

“Yes, we are both of us
orphaned, vulnerable and alone in a foreign land.”

“You sound like Little Nell in
the jungles of darkest Africa!”

She ignored the facetiousness.
“Miss Dee has promised to give me some golf lessons on her free
days. She agrees it is the perfect sport for a young lady, not as
perspiring as tennis or badminton. She dreams of establishing a
golf club exclusively for ladies. When I told her I have a few
spare acres out by Hampstead Heath she became quite excited. She
has lots of ideas on how a golf course should be laid out. She has
a keen sense of humour and is the most charming, witty, gay, and
kind person I have met for ages.”

“We cannot possibly be talking
about the same Miss Dee. I’m thinking of the one who is rude,
aloof, cold and brusque.”

“You were the one who knocked
into her,” reminded the Countess, “and almost ruined a new set of
expensive clubs which, to her, are more than just a plaything. Oh,
look! The train is cutting through the middle of a Stone Age
circle!”

He glanced out of the window as
she disappeared into the bathroom. A few moments later, with her
luxuriant brunette mane re-coifed and all the loose wisps neatly
tucked back, and a fresh application of rouge highlighting her
Slavic cheekbones, she reappeared, smiling the carefree smile of
those born bright and beautiful.

“What was so important about
that letter that caused such a fuss anyway?” she continued
interrogatively as she moved to the door and stood with one hand on
the brass handle and the other poised dramatically on her hip. “If
I didn’t know better I’d say you were working undercover for The
Foreign Office. You certainly behaved most peculiarly.
Ce qui
est
?”

He was getting better at
telling lies and barely paused for breath – a job at The Foreign
Office was definitely a future possibility. “An old chum from my
time in Afghanistan wrote that he would be visiting London over
Christmas. I may have mentioned the name Colonel Haytor to you,
anyway, he mentioned some dates we might get together. I didn’t
want to make a hash of his visit by losing those dates.”

She rolled her smoky blue-grey
eyes as she whirled out the door and disappeared in a perfumed haze
of musk, civet and scented violets.

She certainly must have hit it
off with her new best friend. They had probably designed an entire
golf course on a napkin by now, including the perfect club house
and the perfect wardrobe of sporting attire to go with it, in
herringbone, houndstooth, Prince of Wales check and every
combination of plaid dreamed-of to date. She did not return to the
compartment until moments before the train pulled into Glasgow
Central Station at five minutes before six.

The Royal Scot waited a mere
five minutes on the platform before rolling out again. By the time
it chugged into Princes Street Station in Edinburgh the train had
covered 400 miles in less than eight hours. An engineering marvel!
They arrived in the Scottish capital with ample time to check into
their hotel and make a reservation for dinner.

The Caledonian Boar Hotel was
situated on a leafy square just off Princes Street, a stone’s throw
from the train station, making it a comfortable and convenient
staging post for travellers who preferred not to journey-on after
dark.

“Guess what?” the Countess
trilled, as several porters took charge of her luggage, relieving
Xenia and Fedir, her personal maid and manservant, of the task.
“The Dees are staying at this hotel too!”

Dr Watson’s face fell and he
couldn’t bring himself to speak.

“This will restore your good
humour,” she continued cheerily, “Lady Moira is staying here
too.”

They had mounted the grand
sweep of stairs leading to the first floor when he paused mid-step
and turned to look at her. “How do you know that?”

“Miss Dee told me. She and her
brother are meeting the dowager for dinner tonight and then
tomorrow they are travelling together to Cruddock Castle. His
lordship’s widowed mother came to Edinburgh in order to do some
Christmas shopping and to have her regular medical check-up. We
have been invited to join them for dinner tonight in the hotel
restaurant. I think our Scottish sleuthing holiday is starting off
rather splendidly.”

He commenced climbing the
stairs once more but stopped abruptly a second time, his voice fell
to a concerned register. “You didn’t, I mean, you haven’t, surely
you didn’t mention anything about what we talked about, I mean
about the three deaths being suspicious?”

“Of course not!”

“Miss Dee-lightful didn’t
manage to make you to drop your guard?” he tested.

“
Pas du tout
! And
there’s no need for that rudeness.”

“You didn’t reveal anything
about the Wicca symbolism?”

“I was discretion itself!”

Somehow he felt less than
convinced and by the time he reached his room he had a bad feeling
in the pit of his stomach. There was more than meets the eye about
Catherine and Carter Dee.

The dining room of The
Caledonian Boar was unapologetically Jacobite. It displayed
portraits of William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, Mary Queen of
Scots, and the Earl of Bothwell. It featured Jacobean furniture,
tartan rugs, chandeliers fashioned from antlers, and purple heather
in vases on each table. Anywhere else it would have looked like a
twee parody of Scottishness, but this was Scotland, after all. Lady
Moira always stayed at The Caledonian Boar whenever she visited
Edinburgh and that was recommendation enough for them.

The dowager was about seventy
years old but looked much older. She was the visual incarnation of
the fictional jilted bride, Miss Havisham, just before she went
completely bonkers. She had a pale complexion, one shade removed
from death, wispy, white, bird’s nest hair, coiled and up-pinned,
oodles of jewellery, white lace gloves, and a white silk dress with
an overlay of white lace. If she had announced to all and sundry
that she was the high priestess of geriatric vestal virgins no one
would have doubted her.

“I know Graymalkin Tower quite
well,” she said in a softly rasping voice that sounded like she’d
swallowed cobwebs. “It has been quite a while since anyone has
stayed there.”

“What concerns me,” responded
the Countess, “is whether Graymalkin is habitable.”

“You will find it quite
habitable,” assured the dowager confidently. “Mrs Ross, the
housekeeper, would make certain of that. Graymalkin might be
ancient but it is not derelict. It is a small but interesting
dwelling of four parts. The tallest section, the peel tower, was
built in the twelfth century, around the same time as Lammas Abbey.
The sturdiest section, the keep, was built in the thirteenth
century, around the time of the Viking invasions. While the two
wings that link the different sections are more recent – sixteenth
and seventeenth century. They boast larger windows, larger rooms
and larger fireplaces. The place is reminiscent of Eilean Donan
Castle, right down to the footbridge which thankfully did away with
the inconvenience of crossing the causeway, especially in the dead
of winter.”

There were two unoccupied seats
at the table and they were waiting for these to be filled before
ordering
a la carte
. One seat was reserved for Mr Carter Dee
who had decided to take a brisk walk prior to joining them for
dinner. The other was for Lady Moira’s companion-cum-lady’s maid
who was finishing off some letter writing in her room.

When the latter made an
appearance, Dr Watson sprang from his chair and clasped the young
woman to his chest in a gesture bordering on dangerously exuberant
or possibly lunatic. The pretty young thing blushed profusely and
didn’t know where to look. She had wavy, upswept, auburn hair, a
gorgeous creamy complexion, and a pert, little, upturned nose.

“Uncle John!” she stammered
with embarrassment as he released his bear-like grip. “What, er,
what are you doing here, er, I mean in this part of Scotland?”

“I’m on holiday,” he gurgled
enthusiastically. “I will be staying at Graymalkin Tower with my
travelling companion, Countess Volodymyrovna. Let me introduce
you.” He turned to the Countess. “Miss Adeline Lambert,” he
announced proudly, as if she were his long lost daughter returned
to the fold after forty years in the wilderness and not merely the
niece of his late wife, whose name had slipped his mind.

“
Enchanté
,” said the
Countess as the young woman took her seat. “What a glorious
coincidence! Dr Watson was just saying the other day that he was
hoping to look you up while we were holidaying in this part of the
world.”

“How is it that you chose to
stay at Graymalkin?” asked the young woman, expressing curiosity.
“No one has stayed there for years and years.”

Dr Watson jumped in with a
reply. “The Countess inherited Graymalkin through her step-aunt and
when she professed a desire to visit, and I heard there was a golf
tournament nearby, well, nothing could keep us away. So here we
are!”

“In that case, I will see quite
a bit of you, Uncle John, since I live at the opposite end of the
loch at Mawgate Lodge. I am companion to Lady Moira.”

“Yes,” he nodded, still beaming
broadly, “Lady Moira explained as much before you joined us, but
she failed to mention your name. It is a great piece of luck!”

While they were discussing what
time they might all set off tomorrow, Mr Dee arrived, and the
waiter followed hot on his heels brandishing menu cards.

Mr Dee appeared full of nervous
energy as he sandwiched himself between the Countess and his
sister. He toyed with the stem of his wine glass, unfolded and
refolded his linen napkin and even sat on his hands, alas, they
shook so much during the meal his cutlery took on a jittery life of
its own, tapping out a discordant tune on his plate. As if to
distract from this, Miss Dee talked with great animation about the
vast South African veldt, and she could indeed hold court when it
suited her. The golf tournament was briefly discussed but no one
mentioned the three deaths until the close of evening when the bill
was being settled by Dr Watson who insisted that it be put on his
account. It was Lady Moira who broached the subject.

“I will be conducting a séance
the night after next,” she addressed forthrightly to the Countess.
“I will be holding it at Cruddock Castle. You and Dr Watson are
cordially invited to join us for dinner prior to the event. I will
let my son know I have invited you. He will be delighted to make
your acquaintance though less happy about the séance. But the
spirits of Lammas moor are restless and they must be given voice.
The three recent murders have unsettled them and they wish to
communicate their unhappiness to those responsible.”

“Murders!” exclaimed the
Countess, feigning shock. “I read that there had been three fatal
accidents. But murders, you say!”

“Now, now, Grandmama,”
intervened Miss Dee in a sweetly condescending tone, “the
detectives from Scotland Yard decreed them to be accidents. You
cannot go about calling them murders. It will frighten and upset
people.”

“Tosh!” snorted the dowager.
“Frighten and upset my son, you mean, because it might disrupt his
plan to have idiots trampling a sacred site as they go about
whacking a ball with a stick! And I am not your Grandmama, young
lady! My son might be your god-father, but that does make
me
your kith and kin!”

On that harsh note they parted
ways and went to bed but none slept soundly. The Countess dreamed
that Graymalkin had been overrun by hundreds of black cats, Dr
Watson dreamed that his lovely niece had turned into a corn dolly,
Lady Moira dreamed of dead spirits rising up from the grave
wielding golf clubs, Mr Dee dreamed of chopping off his shaky
hands, and Miss Dee dreamed of sinking the winning shot of the
tournament just as a stray golf ball sailed through the air and hit
her on the head, killing her instantly.

Lady Moira and Miss Lambert
were still fast asleep when Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna
rolled out of Edinburgh in a landau in the early hours of a frosty
morning, just ahead of Fedir and Xenia in a wagonette laden with
golf clubs, hat boxes, portmanteaux and travelling trunks.

Hiring a wagonette had proved
an easy task but hiring a landau in good condition with a decent
pair of horses had proved more difficult. The owner of the landau
would not be parted from his carriage or his fine chestnut mares
and insisted on being hired as the driver. In the end, when the
Countess learned the carriage driver was familiar with the area
around Loch Maw, she decided it might actually be beneficial to
have an extra pair of male hands at Graymalkin for the duration of
their sojourn and agreed to his terms.

The man’s name was Horace
Horsefield. He had a long horsey face and a long silky mane of
black hair which he tied back in a ponytail. They immediately
christened him Horace the Horse, but not to his horsey face.