The Lammas Curse (13 page)

“Scaredy cat!” she teased when
he ran off.

From the top of the parapet she
began to soak up the glorious panorama of Loch Maw and the Marmion
Hydro Hotel on the opposite bank when she spotted two people
half-hidden in the shelter of a ruined arch, locked in an ardent
embrace. Quickly she ducked down so they didn’t think she was
spying on them. She assumed it might be Miss O’Hara and Mr
Larssensen, but then she remembered the dog. The man had to be
Hamish Ross. But who was the woman?

Slowly, she began to clamber
back down the steps when the man called out angrily.

“Hey! What are you doing up
there?”

His voice shattered the
spiritual silence of the place, setting off an explosion of
blackbirds who took to the sky in such numbers they momentarily
darkened it. Birds circled around her in frenzied flight and she
almost lost her balance.

“Don’t move! Stay still!”

Sprinting across the overgrown
cloister, thick with weeds and thistles, hurdling blocks of fallen
masonry, he clambered up the masonry before she could complete her
descent. She thought he might be about to rebuke her
vis-à-vis
but he held out his hand as he braced his legs,
balancing one foot on each of two separate stone blocks that
teetered unsteadily.

“There’s nowt supporting this
ledge! Take my hand!”

Thane, sensing danger, began
barking ferociously.

“Take my hand!” her rescuer
repeated urgently. “And don’t make any sudden moves!”

She placed her hand in his and
gradually he eased her down one block at a time, carefully testing
each stone with his own weight before guiding her onto it,
manoeuvring himself backwards the whole time.

“Steady now. Steady as she
goes,” he said with each uncertain step until she was back on terra
firma - heart thrashing so fiercely she thought it might burst.

“What the hell made you climb
those stones?” he rebuked, wiping the sweat off his brow with the
back of his hand now that the peril has passed and Thane had ceased
his frantic barking.

The Countess felt momentarily
tongue-tied. She couldn’t very well blurt out that Miss Dee had
recommended the view from the parapet. Though why had she? Did she
know it was dangerous? Did she send her up there deliberately?

“I, er, I thought it might
offer a good view of the loch,” she stuttered, heart still jammed
in her throat, thrashing madly. “I, er, I didn’t realize it was
unsafe.”

“Unsafe!” He took hold of her
elbow and forced her around the heap of rubble to the other side
where the topmost stone projected, suspended in fresh air. “It’s an
accident waiting to happen!” he growled, stepping back from the
stones and looking earnestly at the figure emerging sheepishly from
behind a wall. “I will have some of the men dismantle this stack of
stones before there is a fourth death! You can mention my intent to
Lady Moira, but don’t allow her to embroil you in an argument on my
account. Let me handle her objections. And don’t mention my plan to
his lordship. I will speak to him personally.”

Miss Lambert nodded to show she
understood before turning to the Countess. “I don’t think you have
been introduced,” she said, cheeks turning cherry pink. “Countess
Volodymyrovna may I present Mr Hamish Ross, the ghillie from
Cruddock Castle.”

Ah! Of course! Miss Lambert’s
passionate defence of ghillies suddenly made sense! She had assumed
Hamish Ross to be the brother or uncle of Mrs Ross, but that was
clearly not the case. Hamish Ross was about thirty years of age,
strong and muscular, with a hardy handsome countenance and a mane
of reddish-blond hair that is often called strawberry and goes hand
in hand with a sprinkling of freckles.

“Thank you for rescuing me,”
the Countess offered with terrific understatement when she could
trust her voice not to stutter. “I hate to think what might have
happened if you had not been present. You must be Mrs Ross’s
son?”

He whistled for his dog, which
came bounding instantly to his side. “I’m heading to Graymalkin now
to see my mother. I’ll walk with you if you are going back that way
and have no objection.”

“I was on my way to Graymalkin
too,” interposed Miss Lambert, cheeks glowing, “when I bumped by
chance into Mr Ross. Lady Moira sent me to invite you to afternoon
tea - 4 o’clock at Mawgate Lodge - and Dr Watson too, of course,”
she added with a flustered smile. “Lady Moira believes that if we
fortify ourselves with sandwiches and teacake and cups of Mr
Twining before going to Cruddock Castle for the rehearsal we will
survive Miss O’Hara’s tongue lashing. Miss O’Hara can be a bit of
martinet when it comes to rehearsals and she will not allow supper
to be served until about nine or ten o’clock when we are all
famished and dying of thirst and totally exasperated with our
failings to please her. I’ll walk with you and say hello to Uncle
John.”

“Martinet!” Mr Ross laughed
harshly as they set off, Thane leading the way. “Miss O’Hara is
more like a Witchfinder General pricking everyone with a
sharp-tongued bodkin to make them bleed!”

Miss Lambert and Mr Ross were
invited to stay to lunch, a hearty Scotch broth, but they did not
linger long at table which was for the best. It gave the Countess
and the doctor time to study their lines. They retreated to
separate quarters and stayed put until it was time to change into
evening clothes. But the Countess’s focus was not all it could have
been. Her mind kept circling back to the moment they entered the
kitchen and found Mrs Ross studying a piece of paper on the kitchen
table. The housekeeper had scooped up the paper and shoved it into
a dresser drawer but not before the Countess had caught a glimpse
of it. She was certain it was the same paper as the night before
because of its size, and though it had a tracery of lines all over
it, it did not appear to be a map. The lines appeared to be in the
shape of a large tree!

Jackdaw Wood loomed ahead of
them and each time it seemed more and more like driving a carriage
through an empty cathedral. The reverential hush, the pillars of
trees, the lofty vaulted canopy, the feeling of being in a sacred
place - all these things impressed themselves on the mind by
degrees.

Emerging from the wood
reinforced the sensation. They came out of the woody darkness into
what seemed like a blaze of light, the same as lurching from the
dimness of a church into blinding daylight. They were passing the
Marmion Hydro Hotel, no intention of stopping, the horses picking
up speed, when they spotted the caddy for Mr Larssensen sprinting
down the drive, frantically waving his arms, signalling for them to
halt. Fedir jerked on the reins.

“What is it?” called Dr Watson,
poking his head out of the carriage window.

“There’s been an accident!” the
caddy shouted, breathless with running. “It’s Mr Brown!”

Dr Watson immediately flung
open the door and told the caddy to hop inside, instructing Fedir
to detour to the hotel.

“What has happened?” the doctor
pressed as the horses galloped down the drive.

“Mr Brown fell down the old
well! They are dragging him up as we speak!”

“I see,” murmured the doctor
gravely, wondering how such a thing was possible. Old wells usually
had a cover to avoid exactly such accidents. “It is Mr MacDuff, is
it not?”

“Yes,” the man confirmed, still
panting.

“My name is Dr John
Watson.”

“I know who you are,” replied
the caddy. “I recognized your name on the hotel register when you
first arrived. But it is not because you are a doctor that I
decided to hail you down when I spotted your carriage. I know that
you partnered the famous detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes, and I
thought you might be able to shed some light on the death of Mr
Brown.”

“Death?” echoed the doctor as
the carriage pulled up in a flurry of dust and they all leapt out,
including the Countess who had listened to the brief exchange
without interrupting.

Mr Brown’s accident was the
fourth fatal accident since the tournament commenced, and the
Countess quickly realised it might well have been the fifth if not
for the timely intervention of Mr Hamish Ross, though she did not
share that realization with her friend.

They passed through a secluded
gate set in a stone wall at the rear of the hotel and stopped dead.
Five men were tugging on a rope, hauling up a body with a heave-ho
like sailors raising anchor. The old well was set in the paving
stones just outside the kitchen, and yes, to one side was a wooden
cover that could not have moved itself. The body came up with one
last heave and plopped onto the stones like a giant fish stuck on
the end of a giant hook. In reality, the hook protruded through the
man’s thigh which was oozing blood and gore, indicating the body
had not been long down the well. It was covered with filth and
slime. Closer examination revealed that the large hook was in fact
a meat hook, the sort used for hanging carcasses in a salting
room.

“Good God!” the doctor
exclaimed with disgust. “Was there no other way to retrieve the
body?”

“None,” replied a man with a
hare-lip, speaking for all. “The well is not as deep as it used to
be since the cover went on but it has always been narrow, built for
one bucket at a time, and the winding mechanism was removed some
years ago.”

The doctor turned to the
Countess. “You may wish to go inside and join Mrs Ardkinglas. This
is not a pretty sight.”

She met his gaze with defiant
determination. “This is nothing compared to what we witnessed in
Devon,” she reminded reproachfully.

“So be it,” he said,
recognizing the futility of entering into an argument he had no
chance of winning. “Who removed the cover from the well?” he asked
of the hare-lip man.

“It was already removed,” said
hare-lip.

“Well, it didn’t remove
itself,” pointed out the doctor. “Someone must have shifted
it.”

“Yes,” agreed hare-lip, setting
off a snigger of smiles among the other men.

“Who discovered the body?”
addressed the Countess sternly before the men got too cocky and
started running rings around them.

“Me,” said a shy lad who had
been hanging back by the kitchen doorway, he looked about twelve
years of age. “I was taking slops out to the pigs and saw the cover
pushed to one side and peered down the well and saw a pair of boots
poking up with some legs attached to ‘em.”

There was another chorus of
sniggers followed by: Good lad, Robbie. Brave lad. Bonny boy. You
did good, young Robert. The boy coloured and smiled with
embarrassment.

“Can you say how long ago this
was?” pursued the Countess.

Robbie’s brow puckered and he
shook his head. “I cried out right away but I cannot say how much
time has passed since. There was a lot of folk coming and going to
have a stare, even Mrs Ardkinglas came out and it made her ill to
look on it, she cupped her mouth and ran inside, and then someone
shouted for me to fetch a rope and then someone shouted to fetch a
big meat hook. I was running to and fro and forgot all about the
pigs.”

The Countess opened her beaded
evening purse. “Come here, Robbie,” she said. “I am going to give
you a shilling for being brave and acting sensibly.” When he
stepped up proud as punch to collect his shilling she whispered in
his ear. “I will give you another shilling if you can remember
anything else about what you saw or what was said. I don’t want you
to tell me now. I want you to think on it and come to me when you
are ready. I am staying at Graymalkin. Do you know how to find
it?”

The young boy slipped the shiny
shilling into his pocket and nodded. “Yes, m’lady,” he whispered
back.

“Good lad,” she smiled
luminously. “And if you keep it a secret between us there will be a
third shilling in it.”

Dr Watson took over the
interrogation. “Did anyone witness this accident?”

His question set off a series
of sniggers that culminated in several loud grunts and snorts.

“Accident!” mocked hare-lip.
“It weren’t no accident! A man don’t plunge headfirst down a well
in broad daylight by accident! He were pushed!”

Dr Watson scowled at his own
stupidity and addressed himself to the other caddy. “When was the
last time you saw Mr Brown?”

Mr MacDuff who had been
observing proceedings keenly, stepped forward. He seemed to have
his reply at the ready and it was rich in detail. “We caddied
eighteen holes this morning and returned to the hotel for our
lunch. It had just gone midday. After lunch, Mr Brown and I had a
cigarette out on the east terrace because Mrs Ardkinglas does not
like us to smoke in the dining room or in our bedrooms. There was
no cold wind so we enjoyed a second cigarette. After that, I went
upstairs to have a kip and I presumed Mr Brown did the same. I was
woken by the young lad when he screamed out. That’s my room up
there.” He pointed to an open window on the second floor. “I looked
at my pocket watch. It was twenty minutes past three. I put on my
boots and rushed down the stairs and recognized the boots down the
well as those belonging to Mr Brown. I shouted the order to get a
rope. Someone else shouted for a meat hook. I do not know who that
was. As the rope and hook were being fetched I spotted your
carriage through the open gate and ran as fast as I could to flag
you down.”

“Thank you,” said Dr Watson.
“May I commend you on a most thorough account of events in timely
order? But I take it by your words that you do not know what caused
Mr Brown to come into the kitchen courtyard?”

“No,” said Mr MacDuff with a
sorry shake of his head.

“I spotted a poacher in the
wood today,” volunteered one of the men.

Dr Watson spun round to look at
the speaker with the large axe at his feet. “What is your
name?”