The Lammas Curse (14 page)

“Ned, sir. I am the wood
chopper,” he replied respectfully, doffing his cloth cap, noting
the doctor’s eyes resting on the axe. “I saw a man in Crow Wood. He
was moving furtive-like. I thought he might be a poacher but he
coulda been a robber.”

Several of the men murmured and
nodded their heads. They thought this villain lurking in the woods
settled the matter. Though why a robber would choose to remove a
wooden cover from a well and shove a complete stranger down it head
first is a question they did not ask themselves. A robber might
kill to avoid being apprehended but he would choose a much more
straightforward method so that he could make a run for it back into
the wood before being discovered. No, the explanation did nothing
to clarify matters.

Dr Watson checked his pocket
watch. Time was ticking away and daylight was fast fading and he
was mindful of not incurring the wrath of Lady Moira by arriving
any later than they already would do. And he could not make a close
examination of the body without soiling his clothes and arriving at
Cruddock Castle covered in fetid slime, thus upsetting Miss
O’Hara’s rehearsal. He turned back to Mr MacDuff who had given the
impression of being a man with common-sense, able to think on his
feet.

“I cannot stay any longer
discussing this matter. I have business elsewhere,” he announced in
clipped tones. “I will return tomorrow to examine the body. I am
entrusting you and Ned to transport the body of Mr Brown into the
cellar. I want the cellar locked and I want you to hold the key
until I call for it. Do not let it out of your sight. I want the
cover left exactly where it is lies now. No one is to touch
anything. Please inform Mrs Ardkinglas that I want Mr Brown’s
bedroom door locked and I want no one to enter the room until I
give the say so. Any man or woman who fails to follow my
instructions will have to answer to Scotland Yard when they arrive
to investigate this murder. Yes, murder,” he stressed volubly,
putting the wind up the men assembled in the courtyard by invoking
The Yard who most likely would not turn up at all, and the only
person to look into the death would be the easily intimidated
constable from Duns.

“Would you like me to hold onto
the bedroom key too?” asked Mr MacDuff.

“Yes,” said Dr Watson.

“And would you like me to take
the names of the men gathered here?” continued Mr MacDuff, proving
his worth. “I have a notebook and a pencil in my pocket. I use them
for keeping score at golf.”

“Yes, indeed!” said Dr Watson.
“Scotland Yard will be interested to interview everyone and will
want the names of the men who are present. Well done, Mr MacDuff. I
leave matters in your capable hands. I will inform his lordship of
what has transpired here this afternoon and I will inform Mr Bancoe
that he no longer has a caddy. I will return first thing
tomorrow.”

“Do you think that was wise?”
posed the Countess when they were back in the carriage, heading
north once more.

“How do you mean?” queried the
doctor.

“Leaving Mr MacDuff in charge,”
she clarified. “For all we know he could be the murderer. He had
ample opportunity to shove Mr Brown down the well and there could
be any number of motives.”

“Such as?”

“He may be jealous of his
counterpart or jealous of the other golfers because he is a golfing
tragic who never quite made the mark and begrudges them their
success. Or he may want to sabotage the golf tournament for reasons
of personal vengeance against his lordship – a lot of crofter
families were forced to leave their homes and many ended up in
workhouses when sheep farming on a large scale became more
profitable for the landowners - or because he is a Spiritualist who
believes the Lammas moor is a sacred site that should be left
undisturbed.”

“Or he may simply be a madman
who enjoys killing,” gibed Dr Watson.

She bit her tongue while she
digested the sardonic retort but the matter of the fourth death
overrode her bruised ego. “This death is different to the
others.”

“How so?”

“There was no Wicca connection.
I scanned the courtyard several times searching for some sort of
symbol but try as I might I could not spot anything to do with
witchcraft.”

“Someone may have destroyed it
before we arrived,” he suggested.

“It is vital that you don’t
drop any hint of it when you question the men tomorrow, and don’t
eliminate Mrs Ardkinglas from your inquisition, though I think it
will be young Robbie who may be the most forthcoming. He won’t be
on his guard like the men, he has nothing to hide, and he was first
on the scene. If something symbolic of witchcraft was removed he
would be the one to know it. I bribed him with an extra shilling
and encouraged him to come to Graymalkin.”

“Shilling or no, he may be too
frightened to walk through Jackdaw Wood. I can question him
tomorrow before I speak to anyone else.”

She shook her head firmly. “No,
don’t quiz him at all. I don’t want any of the men, including
MacDuff, to think that the boy remembers anything other than what
he has already imparted. If he doesn’t turn up at Graymalkin by the
day after tomorrow I shall pay him a discrete visit.”

Mawgate Lodge was an old stone
gatehouse that had recently been extended to accommodate the
dowager and her retinue of servants after the old lady announced
she would not deign to live under the same roof as
that Irish
actress.
It could best be described as a stately cottage -
large but not grand, homely rather than ornate - the recent
addition constructed in the traditional manner by craftsmen who
took pride in simplicity rather than ostentation. It was a handsome
and sturdy house that sat comfortably in its rural setting and was
a perfect example of the architectural principles espoused by
proponents of the Arts and Crafts Society, a new style that was
proving more popular in Scotland than in England.

They settled in the south
parlour, furnished in an unfussy style in keeping with the clean
and uncluttered lines of the house, which gave onto the loch via a
bay window and on a clear day offered a good view of Graymalkin at
the opposite end.

Dr Watson felt torn between not
spoiling the afternoon tea by mentioning the murder or mentioning
it and thereby learning something useful from the two women. The
latter won.

“I must tender an apology,” he
began tentatively. “The Countess and I arrived late because we were
called upon to detour to the Marmion Hydro Hotel. Mr Brown was this
afternoon found dead.”

“Found dead!” rasped Lady
Moira. “By that I take it you mean murdered?”

“That does appear to be the
case,” he affirmed with understatement.

“How awful!” muttered Miss
Lambert, passing around some dainty crustless sandwiches.

“Murdered how?” pursued Lady
Moira, choosing a slice of plain buttered bread.

“Drowned,” he replied, tossing
up between anchovy and salmon before selecting one of each.

“In his bath?” the old lady
asked.

“No - the old well,” intervened
the Countess opting for the cress.

The old lady turned a whiter
shade of pale and Miss Lambert appeared visibly stricken. They
exchanged sidelong glances before turning their attention to their
crustless sandwiches.

“Is there something untoward?”
asked the Countess. “I mean about the fact that Mr Brown was found
down the well.”

“Well, it is most unpleasant,”
croaked the old lady, sounding as if she had just swallowed a
mouthful of cobwebs.

“I don’t wish to appear
impertinent,” pressed the Countess impertinently, “but it seems
more than merely unpleasant. I couldn’t help noticing you looked
askance at each other. It appears to be related to the fact the
body was found down the well. Dr Watson will be making an
examination of the body tomorrow and writing a report for the
coroner,” she lied shamelessly, “is there something you are
withholding that may be vital to the inquest?”

Miss Lambert turned bright pink
and busied herself by topping up everyone’s teacup.

Lady Moira wiped the corners of
her mouth with her napkin and coughed to clear her throat before
proceeding. “Colonel Ardkinglas, the late husband of Mrs
Ardkinglas, committed suicide many years ago by throwing himself
down the well. Mrs Ardkinglas had the winding mechanism dismantled
and a wooden cover made for the well. The well has not been used
since that day.”

“I see,” murmured the Countess
solemnly.

The doctor remained silent. The
two incidents were hardly related apart from the connection to the
well. One was suicide and the other was murder. And the two
incidents were years apart. Nevertheless, he heeded Sherlock’s
maxim to follow every thread. “How long ago did this happen?”

“About ten years ago, or
perhaps nine, or possibly eight. Oh, dear! One does get muddled in
old age. It becomes easier to remember details from youth than from
last week or last year. When was it Miss Lambert?”

“Six years ago come winter,
Lady Moira.”

“There you go, not as far back
as I thought. You recount the details Miss Lambert. My throat feels
terribly dry and I’m sure you will recall them much better than I.
Serve the Victoria sponge first, if you will.”

When a generous slice of
Victoria sponge with strawberry jam and clotted cream sat in front
of each person Miss Lambert commenced her monologue and she was
surprisingly articulate.

“Colonel Ardkinglas was in the
British Army, serving in India. The East India Company had been
disbanded in 1858, as you most likely know, but British Crown
interests remained numerous and they required constant protection.
There were always skirmishes and uprisings led by the Sepoys, the
Indians who had been trained by the British Army but were forbidden
from being promoted above a certain rank. It caused a lot of
animosity that just festered for years and years and often spilled
over into violence.

Colonel Ardkinglas had been
posted to the north-east which was generally peaceful but the
sepoys suddenly attacked Fort Rajapur where he was stationed.
British casualties were high and those men who survived were
imprisoned in the dungeons of the old fort. It was reminiscent of
the Kolkat incident where most of the prisoners died from the
effects of terrible overcrowding - suffocation, starvation and
dehydration. When the Colonel was released a year later he was in
extremely poor health and was repatriated home.

However, prior to the attack
and being imprisoned he had heard of a lucrative mercantile venture
involving a large fleet of ships for the tea trade. A group of
wealthy British merchants whose families had been involved in the
East India Company were behind the venture and they had set up
their own trading company. The Governor of Chettingar, Lord
Trefoyles, the Earl of Lomond and Lord Cruddock, to name a few,
were all buying a share. He convinced his family to sink all their
money into the venture, which they promptly did. The first ship to
set sail sank to the bottom of the Bay of Bengal on its maiden
voyage. It had not been insured. There was no fleet, just the one
ship. The entire venture sank with it.

There was talk in the
newspapers at the time that the ship had not been seaworthy and
that the venture was merely a giant swindle to convince investors
to part with their money. And that did seem to be the case in the
end because the money all disappeared and so did the directors of
the company, all of whom had set sail for far-flung outposts a week
before the maiden voyage.

When Colonel Ardkinglas
returned to England and discovered he had bankrupted his family it
broke him completely. He became a physical and mental wreck. His
family had no sympathy and could not bear to have him around and
packed him off to their old hunting lodge here in the Borders, it
was like exile or banishment. They wanted all reminders of him to
just go away. He tried to make the best of it by turning the
run-down old lodge into a hotel, but he suffered from dizzy spells
and he often had black outs. They got worse and worse, by that I
mean more frequent. Then six years ago he threw himself down the
well.”

The Countess finished the last
morsel of her Victoria sponge. “Lady Moira, do you know if your son
lost a lot of money in the venture?”

“My son did not lose any money
at all. He sold his share to someone else at the last moment. I
cannot say what prompted him to sell but he actually made money out
of it – a substantial amount.”

“To whom did he sell his
share?” asked Dr Watson.

“If I ever knew it, I cannot
remember it now. I suffer from failing health which has blunted the
bit of memory that old age has not. I do however remember thinking
at the time it would help pay off some of his gambling debts but
unfortunately it only encouraged him to gamble even more
extravagantly. He went off to the gambling dens of London and came
back with less than what he had before the venture. He was an only
child, our only son, spoilt by his father and indulged by me, and
I’m afraid I am now reaping what we sowed.”

The doctor addressed himself to
his wife’s niece. “Do you recall the name of the ship that sank in
the Bay of Bengal?”

Miss Lambert shook her head.
“No, I must have read it in the newspapers at the time and I do
remember Lord Trefoyles talking about it a good deal but I cannot
recall the minor details. Perhaps Mr Hamish Ross will remember. He
studied the swindle in great detail to see if his mother might
recoup a portion of her lost investment but she never did.” She
turned to Lady Moira and changed the topic. “Speaking of Mr Ross, I
bumped into the ghillie on my way to Graymalkin this morning and he
told me to let you know he is planning to dismantle a section of
the abbey ruins.”