The Lammas Curse

The

Lammas

Curse

ANNA LORD

Book Two

Watson & The Countess

Series

Copyright © 2015 by Anna Lord

Melbourne, Australia

All rights reserved. No part of this
book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical
means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in
the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or
reviews—without written permission.

The characters and events portrayed in
this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to
real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by
the author.

“One should always have
something sensational to read on the train,” teased Countess
Volodymyrovna, noting the number of newspapers her sleuthing
companion had tucked under his arm. She was paraphrasing the bon
viveur of the beau monde, the soi-disant Genius otherwise known as
Mr Wilde, but her words fell flat.

Averse to anything sensational,
Dr Watson had chosen something safe. This included a copy of
The
Times
,
The Spectator
,
The Strand Magazine
,
Sporting Life
,
Tatler, The Penny Weekly
and
The
New Good-Housekeeping Journal for Young Ladies
. That ought to
do it he decided as he settled grumpily into his seat, determined
to avoid discussion re following in the footsteps of Sherlock
Holmes. And for almost fifty-five minutes he had managed to stay
safely hidden behind the pages of his broadsheets but when
curiosity is piqued it soon finds voice.

“I say, there’s an article in
The
Times
about Cruddock Castle,” he ventured,
clearing the rust from his throat with a raspy cough. “Isn’t that
the place where Sir Henry Baskerville’s neighbour, the squire of
Drogo, shot his first stag?”

Countess Volodymyrovna stirred
without lifting her gaze. She didn’t know which was worse - the
faded pages of
A Short History of English Jurisprudence
or
the torpid undulations of the English countryside unrolling like a
patchwork quilt cobbled a thousand years ago to make a blanket for
a chalk giant.

“The estate owned by his
god-mother somewhere in Scotland?”

“The Scottish Borders to be
precise.”

“What of it?” she yawned.

“Well,” he continued,
inflection rising now that he’d cleared his throat. “Lord Cruddock
is holding a golf tournament. The tournament was intended to
promote the new golf course he has recently established in the
Lammermoor Hills. But the contest has been halted. There have been
three unfortunate accidents resulting in death. The article implies
the deaths may be attributable to supernatural -”

“Let me see that!” A surge of
blood had her snatching the newspaper from his hands. She began to
read out loud. “It has been suggested by the highly respected
dowager, Lady Moira Cruddock, that the three unfortunate accidents
are not accidents at all and that the deaths are the result of
supernatural phenomena. The Lammermoor, originally known as the
Lammas moor, is the site of an historic battle between Celts and
Saxons in the tenth century. The moor is a graveyard for thousands
of slain warriors. Moreover, near the fourteenth green lie the
ruins of Lammas Abbey, built in the eleventh century and destroyed
by Viking raiders in the twelfth, another graveyard for countless
restless souls. Lady Cruddock, a Spiritualist of some renown,
claims that the spirits of the dead have been disturbed. She
fervently believes that a curse hangs over the tournament and that
the golf course is doomed.”

The recent thrill of solving
the Baskerville case came back to the Countess in one, breathless,
vivifying rush. Prior to boarding the Devon train she had been
wondering how to circumvent his vow to go their separate ways once
they returned to London. In her mind, their pairing had been a tour
de force which she likened to a perfect marriage and their first
case had been the dream honeymoon. Her nerve-endings were still
tingling from the orgiastic experience as she drew breath and
continued to read at a rollicking pace.

“Three players have died since
the commencement of the tournament. Chuck Fitzalan the current
world champion from the United States of America, Giuseppe Sforza
from Italy, and the highly regarded Australian newcomer, Peter
Lancaster.”

“Can I have my paper back?” he
grumbled.

“Not yet. The American was
struck by a stray golf ball and died from head injuries. The
Italian drowned after he slipped into a water hazard. The
Australian was killed when a tree branch fell on him as he was
taking a shortcut from the twelfth to the thirteenth fairway. I
didn’t realize golf could be so dangerous. I believe you are an
aficionado of the game, Dr Watson?”

He knew better than to ask how
she knew. “Yes, I’m a member at Greenknowe. I got in early. It’s
now closed to new members. There are currently sixty golf courses
in England and the number is increasing by ten or twenty each year,
none as yet for women players. Golf is not considered to be a
dangerous game. The only death I ever heard of was when a player at
Woodhurst was struck by lightning during a thunderstorm.”

“How fascinating! Not being
struck by lightning, I meant that golf could be so popular. I have
always considered it to be a rather dull and pointless pastime. My
late husband had a golf course laid out at our country estate in
the Yarra Valley and when I suggested that he make the holes a
little bit bigger he reacted most regrettably. I cannot say he ever
enjoyed a game, though he did persist with it to the point where
his nerves suffered terribly. He encouraged me to try my hand but I
suspect what he really wanted was a caddy who would not mock him
behind his back. Notwithstanding such an unfortunate introduction
to the game, I think I might take a trip up north before Christmas
and arrange to have some private lessons with the winner of the
competition. Yes, now that I look at golf with more mature eyes it
seems the sort of exercise that is ideal for a lady and I have
always looked good in sporting attire.”

She delivered her little speech
in restrained and measured tones, having decided right from the
outset to downplay her eagerness to investigate this fresh mystery.
If she sounded too keen he would simply refuse to accompany her to
the Scottish Borders and, like most men, once he had planted his
foot it would be impossible for him to alter his stance. The notion
of actually swinging a golf club was the last thing she intended,
but men were such perverse creatures – bless their competitive
hearts. “Do you consider golf a difficult game to master?”

“Not too difficult,” he replied
circumspectly, giving up on getting his newspaper back and picking
up the nearest magazine instead. “I could give you -” He stopped
abruptly.

“What were you going to
say?”

“Nothing.” He opened up
Sporting Life
and hid behind it. A few moments later he
lowered it again. “There’s an article here on the same subject. It
goes into more detail.”

She tried to nab it but he
pre-empted her and held tight.

“Read it out loud,” she
pouted.

“The Lammermoor Tournament is a
contest by elimination. Twelve professional players have been
invited to participate and two wild cards have been issued to two
promising amateurs from South Africa inviting them to try their
hand. The players play in pairs. One pair plays each day and at the
end of the week the lowest scoring pair is eliminated. The
following week the same thing happens, and so on until there is
only one pair left. The final pair play-off as singles and the
winner receives a silver chalice, one hundred pounds, and becomes a
life member of the Lammermoor Golf Club.”

“Sounds like a lucrative
vacation. Where have all these lucky golfers been accommodated? Is
there a hotel attached to the club house?”

He perused the article further.
“I say, this sounds jolly nice! The players are staying at Cruddock
Castle as guests of his lordship. It is described here as the
stately and baronial jewel of the Lammermoor Hills, a gothic
revival masterpiece that served as a model for Abbotsford, the
mansion house belonging to Sir Walter Scott. Caddies, tournament
assistants, and interested spectators are being accommodated at the
nearby Marmion Hydro Hotel situated on the western bank of Loch Maw
which offers a picturesque vista over the golf course and the ruins
of Lammas Abbey.”

“What loch did you say?”

“Loch Maw. Why? Are you
familiar with it?”

“No, but Aunt Zoya owned a
house in Scotland and I think it was near a loch starting with the
letter M.”

He rolled his eyes. “There are
hundreds of lochs in Scotland and at least a dozen of them start
with M.”

She ignored the geography
lesson and the patronizing tone. “My aunt kept promising we would
one day make a visit but we never did. It was, I gather, a bit out
of the way. All her lovers gave her a house. That was the rule. She
had dozens of them all over the world.”

“Lovers or houses?”

“Both – The house had a name.
I’ll think of it in a minute.” Her elegant brows pleated as she
steepled elongated fingers to help centre her thoughts. “The only
thing I remember is that it is perched on a tiny island at the edge
of a loch near a town with the utterly stupid name of Dunce.”

“I think you might mean
Duns.”

“Possibly. Probably. Anyhow,
the house can only be reached by a footbridge which spans the
narrowest point of the loch - sounds frightfully inconvenient.
Perhaps I should check with the solicitor who handles the business
pertaining to my late aunt’s numerous homes – fifteen at last
count. I think there’s an old housekeeper, no electric power, of
course. There might just be enough time to make that visit before
winter sets in.”

He swapped
Sporting Life
for
The Spectator
. “There’s an article in here too! It
details the handicaps of all twelve players. The two favourites for
the play-off are Mr Larssensen a Norwegian and Mr Bancoe the
current Scottish champion, although two wild cards from South
Africa, a brother and sister, Mr Carter Dee and Miss Catherine Dee,
appear to be serious contenders. They happen to be wards of his
lordship and are thrilled that a golf course has been established
near to the castle where they can hone their game on a daily basis.
The article goes on to say that the gently rolling hills of the
Lammas moor were the perfect setting for a golf course and the
locals are excited at the prospect of the Prince Regent visiting
next year in order to open the new club house that is to be built
on the site of the abbey ruins.”

“I met Prince Tum-Tum once in
Paris. What else does the article say?”

“Not much.” He turned the page.
“Ah! Here’s a small map. It shows the layout of the eighteen holes,
the sand bunkers, the water hazards, the position of Cruddock
Castle, and some local landmarks. There’s a dwelling marked here at
the southern end of the loch – Graymalkin.”

“May I have a look?”

“Certainly.” He handed it
over.

“Mmm, the name rings a bell.
Yes, I’m fairly certain that is it – Graymalkin! It’s a shame you
will be busy in London otherwise you could have joined me in
Scotland.”

“What makes you think I will be
busy?”

“Elementary, my dear Dr Watson.
Every fashionable London hostess will be rushing out invitations
for the pre-Christmas social whirl of musical soirees, winter balls
and après-theatre suppers. Your mantelpiece will groan under the
weight of your popularity.” She hardly paused for breath. “I do
believe The Royal Scot goes non-stop to Glasgow now, and then onto
Edinburgh. It cannot be too far to Duns by local rail and then a
short carriage ride to Loch Maw. I should be there by the end of
the week.”

An air of broody sentimentality
fell over his face like a melancholy shroud as he turned to gaze
out of the window while he extracted a cigarette from a silver
case. “I was born in Edinburgh.”

“How nice for you - such a
lovely city. Light one up for me. I must send a telegram as soon as
we arrive at Paddington.” She deliberately glossed over the fact he
was a native Caledonian as she tapped her pearly talons on the
buttoned leather seat while she waited for her cigarette. “If Aunt
Zoya’s old pile is uninhabitable I shall stay at the Marmion Hydro
Hotel. There’s an advertisement here and a photo. The pepperpot
turrets look charming. Fifteen bedrooms, plus three deluxe suites
and a royal suite with its own balcony. A grand dining room
overlooking the loch. A tennis court. A sunken hydro bath in the
Roman style. And a Swiss chef who specializes in fondue.”