The Lammas Curse (18 page)

Countess Volodymyrovna took to
golf like a duck to water. While Dr Watson was inspecting the body
of Mr Brown the Countess was enjoying a game of golf with Miss Dee.
Her friend was an excellent instructress and the incident
concerning the abbey ruins was put firmly out of the Countess’s
mind. They had decided to play the first six holes and then skip
across to the last three. Fedir was doing the caddying for both
ladies. They had just moved across to the sixteenth hole when the
Countess asked the question that had been weighing heavily on her
mind since the previous evening.

“Last night I noticed a
portrait of the previous Lord Cruddock in the dining room. It
struck me as interesting because we had been discussing the
legitimacy of Mr Hamish Ross. I noticed the man in the portrait had
red hair and I wondered…”

Miss Dee finished the sentence
for her, as good friends often do. “You wondered if he could have
fathered Hamish Ross. Yes he did,” she confirmed as she selected a
club and whacked the ball fifty yards through the air and watched
it bounce another fifty yards onto the green. “Mrs Ross was the old
lord’s lover before and after his marriage to Lady Moira.”

“Does Lady Moira know
this?”

“Oh, yes, it is common
knowledge, though no one talks of it.”

It was the Countess’s turn to
tee off. She would need at least three shots to reach the green.
“So Hamish Ross knows it too?”

“Certainly. Bend your knees a
bit more. That’s better.”

“He and Lord Cruddock are
half-brothers?”

“Yes, but Hamish cannot inherit
and he knows that too. Make sure you follow through with the club
when you swing. Don’t pull up short. Have another shot off the
tee.”

“Oh, yes, I am familiar with
royal prerogative and titles and inheritance,” said the Countess,
recalling the case of the Baskervilles. “Wouldn’t that be
cheating?”

“Inherited titles are more
varied in Scotland,” explained Miss Dee. “It can hardly be called
cheating if it is just a practise game. Have another go and make
sure to follow through.”

This time the ball sailed
through the air then bounced and rolled an extra twenty yards. The
Countess felt elated as she strode down the fairway and noted for
the first time the darkening sky. Storm clouds were rolling in and
banking up.

“How are titles varied?” she
asked.

“Fore!”

Suddenly a golf ball whistled
past, missing them by inches. They turned sharply to see who had
hit it. It was the Rajah of Govinda. He had set off to play all
eighteen holes but because the Countess needed to play three or
four shots to every one played by Miss Dee the Rajah had caught up
to them. They played the final two holes together under an
increasingly threatening sky.

Caddying for the Rajah was his
factotum, Mr Chandrapur, a strange man with small, dark, watchful
eyes that reminded the Countess of a cat. He moved like a cat too,
with measured tread and silent footfalls. He also had the habits of
a cat – slinking in the shadows, keeping to the edge, never
intruding. A snap of royal bejewelled fingers was all it took for
Mr Chandrapur to appear out of the woodwork. He appeared and
disappeared in the blink of an eye, giving the impression he could
pass through walls like a ghost, vanish into thin air, only to
materialize someplace else.

Dr Watson was waiting for the
Countess in the golf pavilion. It was formerly a glass house for
growing fruit and vegetables and since it was positioned midway
between the first and last fairway it had been converted for use as
a storeroom for golfing paraphernalia. It was never kept locked.
Golf bags were lined up along one wall, tooled leather name tags
hung from hooks above each bag. His lordship owned six sets of
clubs. Even Hamish Ross had a set of clubs, though they were
battered and looked second hand. The doctor was polishing his clubs
as he waited, eager to whisk the Countess back to Graymalkin before
she agreed to lunch with her new best friend; mindful also that he
needed to inform Mrs Ross as soon as possible that there would be
two extra places at dinner. Through the glass roof he could see
storm clouds banking ominously and it did not bode well for the
re-commencement of the tournament the next day.

“Who was that man with the
Rajah?” he put to the Countess as soon as they were in the carriage
rumbling south.

“That is Mr Chandrapur, his
factotum?”

“Now there’s a word! I have
heard it a hundred times, but tell me, what exactly does a factotum
do?”

“Well, I think it is one of
those words that means different things to different people. In
this case, it means a valet-cum-caddy-cum-equerry-cum-confidential
secretary-cum-slave. He is never far from the Rajah’s side.”

“Never far from his side? I
have never even seen him!”

“You mean to say you did not
notice him in the drawing room when we first arrived? He was
standing in the alcove between the two blackamoor candelabras.”

“I was concentrating on names
and faces,” he responded defensively. “My eyes were not wandering
all over the room. Besides, amongst that fabulous clutter one could
hardly be expected to notice a servant in the background. No one
notices a museum guard in a museum, do they?”

“Mmm, you were concentrating
rather hard on Miss O’Hara too,” she teased. “Mr Chandrapur was
also in the library during the séance.”

“Are you sure?”

“
Certainement, mon ami
!
He slipped in half way through the performance. You probably had
your back to the door and did not notice. The candle spluttered
from the draught and there was a momentary chill.”

“Oh, yes, I remember a brief
chill.” He felt an involuntary shiver.

“He reminds me of a cat – the
way he creeps about on quiet cat-feet. Now, tell me what happened
at the Marmion Hydro Hotel today.”

He recounted all that had
transpired, finishing with the fact that the father of Catherine
and Carter Dee had purchased his lordship’s share of the tea-trade
swindle with tragic consequences.

“I do not think Catherine and
Carter Dee harbour any malice toward their god-father. Carter has
turned into quite the thespian and Catherine is very likely to win
the tournament and make a name for herself in the world of golf.
Callous as it may sound, not every death is a soul-destroying
tragedy. The death of their father could be counted sad but
ultimately fortuitous.”

He nodded without replying,
stroking his beard thoughtfully.

“Are you thinking about the
poacher?” she asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Yes,” he admitted, “how did
you know?”

“We are passing through Crow
Wood and your eyes suddenly got that far-away look you get when you
are thinking about something abstract – and it is the identity of
the poacher that offers us our first real clue as to who could be
behind the deaths. You are thinking that it might be the
paterfamilias, Mr Chandrapur.”

He nodded with greater
animation. “Yes, he is dark-skinned and he could easily have
borrowed a tartan cloak and scarf from the costume room to disguise
himself.”

“What would be his motive? Why
kill Mr Brown? The Rajah is not participating in the tournament.
The Rajah and his shadow-cat have nothing to gain from Mr Brown’s
death.”

“Hmm,” he murmured, looking
vexed, “damned motive!” The carriage gave a jolt and so did his
brain. It jolted itself out of the abstract and back to the
corporeal. “I just remembered something. I forgot to tell you the
reason I was eager to return with you to Graymalkin.”

“I thought perhaps you were
desperate to learn your lines.”

“No, no, I invited Lady Moira
and Miss Lambert to dinner. It was a clever counter-strategy on my
part to avoid dining at Mawgate Lodge.”

She smiled at his choice of
phrase – men were such fascinating creatures. They could make a
simple dinner invitation sound like a battle manoeuvre. “A
counter-strategy?”

“Lady Moira invited us to
dinner, to be followed by a spirit-reading involving that
ridiculous parlour game called Ouija, but I decided the event would
be less open to chicanery if it was to be held at Graymalkin. I
hope Mrs Ross has something suitable in the way of provisions.”

“I’m sure the redoubtable Mrs
Ross will procure an excellent dinner by sleight of hand. If worse
comes to worst she can conjure up some of that delicious kedgeree
we had for breakfast using her magic cauldron.”

He rolled his eyes at her
choice of phrase. “Did you glean anything useful today from Miss
Dee?”

“I learned to follow through
when I am teeing off. Oh, and this may make you change your
snobbish mind about your namesake as a prospective suitor for Miss
Lambert. He is half-brother to his lordship. Mrs Ross was the
previous Lord Cruddock’s inamorata.”

“I do not hold illegitimate
off-spring to account for the sins of their fathers. I was merely
looking out for the girl’s best interests. However, that
information does put him in a better frame, not that his parentage
turns out to be aristocratic, but that his parentage turns out not
to be a dark mystery. I simply prefer there to be no dark cloud
hanging over him.”

“Unfortunately, having been
born on the wrong side of the blanket, he cannot inherit any part
of the estate.”

“Be that as it may, and I am
not saying it because he is my namesake, he is a fine young man. I
saw him in action today out by Maw Bridge and he did not appear to
be carrying a chip on his shoulder from being usurped by Carter Dee
for the part of Macbeth, rather he appears to be the sort of chap
who has a cool head on his shoulders and genuinely cares for the
land and rivers in his charge.”

“If you repeat that to Miss
Lambert tonight I think you will win her undying adoration. When
you are doddery and bed-ridden it will be Miss Lambert who will sit
by your bedside and spoon-feed you chicken broth.”

He gave a hearty chuckle at the
touching avuncular scene as he glanced out of the window and
spotted the woodchopper and the pair of gardeners hurrying back to
the hotel ahead of the encroaching storm. He banged on the roof of
the carriage with his cane for Fedir to stop, and leapt out to
intercept the men before they disappeared down a steep-sided
gully.

“Hey there! Mr Dawes, I forgot
to ask you something!”

A flurry of crows took to the
sky when he yelled out, the last leaves clinging to the pendulous
branches trembled and a palpable shiver spread outward through the
wood.

“What colour tartan was it that
the poacher was wearing?”

“It weren’t the usual Black
Watch that would have blended with the shadows of the wood, that’s
for sure.”

“Black Watch – that’s black and
green?”

The woodchopper nodded. “His
tartan were grey and purple.”

As Dr Watson returned to the
carriage a mizzle of grey rain began to fall, akin to a fine mist.
They soon entered Jackdaw Wood and neither spoke. It wasn’t until
they were out of the wood that the Countess turned to her sleuthing
companion.

“Tonight should prove very
interesting,
mon ami
.”

“Oh spare me! Don’t tell me you
are a devotee of Ouija!”

“
Pas du tout
! I meant we
will be able to observe Lady Moira and Mrs Ross together under the
same roof.”

“Meaning?”

“The wife and the
mistress.”

He slapped the side of his
head. “Heaven forbid! I hope I have not made a terrible
faux
pas
.”

“You didn’t know the situation
when you pressed the counter-invitation,” she reminded. “Did Lady
Moira acquiesce with good grace?”

“I think so. I’m not sure. She
smiled oddly and warned me that Graymalkin has a long history.”

“What do you think she meant by
that?”

“I dismissed it as the usual
piffle about the spirit world.”

“Let’s hope you are right,”
said the Countess, glancing out of the window at the forbidding
grey fortress rising out of the indomitable grey rock.

Dr Watson and Countess
Volodymyrovna were seated either side of a crackling fire in the
barrel-vaulted sitting room, enjoying a cigarette as they waited
for their two guests to arrive. The storm that had threatened all
day did not materialize but the melancholy grey rain continued
without surcease.

Antiques abounded but not the
elegant pieces that filled Cruddock Castle, these were solid,
strong and masculine - they bore their scars proudly as they
anchored themselves to the oak floorboards, stood tall against the
masonry walls, and held their own beside the heavy Mortlake
tapestries. An old gate-leg table in the centre of the room had
been set for dinner. The Ouija tiles could be set up on the same
table following their meal.

Dr Watson was not a man who
appeared at his best in a drawing room. It was not his natural
milieu. He always looked stiff and ill at ease in a social setting,
especially when the women outnumbered the men. He tried to
compensate for his unease by being a stickler for the rules of
etiquette but his discomfit and lack of composure only became more
obvious the harder he tried to adhere to social expectation. He was
a military man who preferred the company of men and that was
that.

But tonight he played host with
great aplomb and led the conversation with admirable skill. The
topics that were
not
discussed were more telling than the
ones that were. He deftly avoided the forthcoming nuptials, the
golf tournament, the four deaths, the Scottish play and the dismal
weather. Throughout dinner he kept the ladies enthralled with tales
of his adventures with the inimitable Sherlock Holmes, and if the
women suspected he may have exaggerated his contribution a touch
they did not say so.