The Lammas Curse (22 page)

The Countess thought the old
woman might be confusing five inch with the number five. “Are you
sure? I believe she bought four.”

“Four inch bodkins do just as
good a job but she wanted only the five inch and took the lot of
them.”

“I will take this three inch
bodkin along with the willow basket. How much for the two?”

“Five shillings, m’lady.”

“Here are six shillings. Good
day to you and your faithful old dog.”

Now, why would Lady Moira buy
five of the five inch bodkins and give three of them to Mrs Ross,
telling her she no longer needed them due to her failing eyesight.
Was it a peace-offering? An act of kindness she did not want
fussily acknowledged?

The Countess gave the willow
basket to Xenia as a gift, but kept the bodkin. It really was an
excellent tool for a lady – small, neat, deadly and
purse-sized.

Mr Chandrapur had been
responsible for putting together the picnic and it was testament to
his usefulness to procure from the cook some tasty morsels at short
notice. Xenia had managed to secure some hot tea and cold beer from
the coaching inn and the feast was complete. They would have
lingered longer but were mindful to get underway as soon as
possible. Several hours later they were in Edinburgh. It was in
Princes Street that the Countess and the Rajah alighted from the
carriage which then proceeded to the harbour with their luggage and
their respective servants where the Rajah’s clipper ship – East
Wind - was moored.

The Rajah expected the Countess
to occupy herself with shopping for new fripperies and arranged to
meet her in the Balmoral Tea Shop at six o’clock, but she announced
she had an errand of her own to see to and would meet him on his
ship in time for a late supper.

The Archives’ Office was just
closing its doors when she pushed against the outgoing throng. The
head archivist was adamant she could not enter but she met
bureaucratic obstinacy with a charm offensive and some shameless
name-dropping. The Cruddock moniker plus her own aristocratic title
plus three pieces of silver eventually won him over. After the
building emptied out, he directed her to a large desk, lit a
paraffin lamp, and brought her several large tomes which recorded
every detail of the Scottish Witch Trials.

The East Wind was a typical
opium clipper, tall-sparred, sleek-hulled, with a massive boom
extending from its slender bow. The Countess paid off the cabbie
and turned toward the gangway.

“A penny for the old guy?”

Startled, she spun round and in
the shadow of some wool bales and coiled ropes was a cadaverous
beggar wrapped in filthy rags, sitting cross-legged, his hair and
face scoured by the biting North Sea wind. She dropped her last
shilling into his begging bowl and watched as a greedy hand with
elongated fingers scooped it up.

Fedir was waiting for her at
the foot of the gangplank.

“Arrange for that beggar to
have some hot food,” she instructed.

“What beggar?”

“That one,” she said, looking
back over her shoulder, but the miserable wretch had slunk off to
the nearest tavern quicker than a rat down a drain.

The Countess’s appetite was
negligible and she could hardly keep her eyes open following the
strain of reading faded transcripts under dim lamplight. Straight
after supper, taken in the Rajah’s luxurious cabin, she elicited
sincere apologies, took herself off to bed and fell immediately
into a deep sleep, aided by the lulling motion of the waves that
gently rocked the ship as if it were a cradle. Numberless hours
later, she was woken abruptly from her slumber when she was almost
tossed out of her bunk. A change of tide and a stronger wind
perhaps, she thought, as she rolled over and fell back asleep. And
thus she slept soundly until a voice roused her none too
gently.

“Countess! Countess!”

“Go away.”

“The ship, it has sailed in the
night!”

“What ship?”

“This ship!”

That roused her! Eyes flew open
and she sat bolt upright, hitting her head on the bunk above. The
gentle bobbing motion of a ship moored in a sheltered bay had
morphed into the unmistakable sensation of a sleek vessel clipping
the waves. Her ears caught the creak and groan of timbers as waves
dashed the hull and the ship pitched and rose and pitched
again.

Panic, goaded by the twins of
Fear and Confusion, spurred the Countess into action. She threw
back the bedcovers, leapt out of her bunk, pushed her arms through
the sleeves of the dressing gown the maid held out, and stormed the
deck. White light was painting the east with broad strokes, a
precursor to the dawn, and yes, the clipper ship was skimming the
waves, its square-rigged canvas sails harnessing the fullness of
the wind. Dark-skinned sailors were scrambling like monkeys up and
down rope ladders, dangling from cross beams, unfurling yet another
sail until at least thirty of them flapped like angry giant birds,
including skysails, moonrakers, and three studding-sails attached
to the boom. Fortunately, they had not yet lost sight of the coast
of Scotland. It was not too late to turn back.

An adrenal rush propelled the
Countess straight to the cabin of the Rajah. Guarding his door was
Mr Chandrapur. Did the ghost-cat never sleep?

“Get out of my way!” she
snapped.

He stood with arms crossed in
front of his substantial chest. “The master is asleep.”

“Not for long!” she dared. “Get
out of my way!”

They heard a sleepy voice from
inside the cabin.

“Let the Countess pass.” The
deep husky voice was muffled by layers of coverlets.

“Turn this ship around and
return at once to the harbour!” she commanded as soon as she pushed
past the factotum, Xenia hot on her heels. “I will not be
kidnapped! Do you hear! Turn back at once!”

The Rajah raised himself on his
elbows. His chest was bare and little whorls of black hair
sprinkled the mahogany expanse. Minus his turban, some glossy black
hair spilled over broad naked shoulders.

“Calm yourself, dear Countess.
Let me explain.” He turned briefly to his factotum. “Darjeeling and
brioches.”

The Countess continued to pace
the Oriental rug, the blood chugging through her veins, though she
no longer felt panicked. The feeling that had overtaken fear and
confusion was anger. Incensed, she was not about to couch her
displeasure in feminine niceties. “Do not tell me to calm myself!
There is nothing more infuriating to a woman than to be told by a
man to calm herself when she has every reason to feel angry!”

“Yes, yes” he placated. “It
makes light of your fears.”

“It is condescending and
patronizing!”

“That too, yes, but draw
breath, dear Countess, dismiss your maid and let me explain.”

Reluctantly, she dismissed
Xenia with a nod of her head but continued to pace the rug like a
caged tigress, hackles raised, teeth barred, claws out, roused and
growly.

“You are not being kidnapped,”
he assured. “We are sailing to Berwick-on-Tweed. The carriage will
meet us in Berwick later this morning, having been driven by one of
my men overnight using fresh horses.”

“To what end?” she
demanded.

“Our return journey today will
be the shorter for it.”

She continued to pace fiercely,
combing elongated fingers through her unbrushed brunette mane but
paused abruptly and glanced down at a desk strewn with papers and
documents when something momentarily caught her eye and held it.
“Why, er, why was I not informed of your plan last night?”

“You appeared exhausted. I did
not wish to burden you with plans which were not fully formed. I
made the decision only after you had retired for the evening.”

“It seems a lot of fuss and
bother for the sake of a few hours of travelling time.”

The Rajah pulled himself
upright and leaned against a bank of pillows. His travelling
companion was proving even more attractive with fire in her cheeks,
and some scandalous tresses cascading slumbrously halfway down her
back, swaying like a burnished bell from side to side each time she
flicked her head. And the silky peignoir silhouetting her slender
frame was enough to inflame the meekest of men. The Rajah could
feel himself getting hard. An ancient Sanskrit text told of
fair-haired invaders. He had always believed them to be Scythians –
the name of the people who inhabited Ukraine in ancient times.
Circassian beauties had always been the most prized.

“I received an urgent telegram
yesterday in Edinburgh informing me of some unrest in my kingdom.
One of my ambitious brothers is stirring up a nest of vipers. As
soon as the tiara is in my hands, the morning after the wedding, I
shall set sail for my homeland. Every extra mile I cover now will
be one less mile to cover then. To that end we sail east. We drop
anchor in time for breakfast.”

This extra information went
some way to calming her nerves. She digested the explanation and
drew breath for the first time since waking in fright with visions
of white slave traders, eastern flesh pots, marriage markets,
nabobs, brothels and corsairs playing havoc with her fertile
imagination. Mrs Radcliffe had a lot to answer for! Fantasies were
all very romantic until you were forced to actually live them!

Without warning he caught her
arm and jerked her off her feet. She landed awkwardly on top of
him. The kiss that followed was masterful and all too brief, cut
short by the return of the Ghost Cat.

“I have revealed my secret,”
said the Rajah when they were trundling west in the carriage,
following yet another road to Cruddock Castle, “now it is your
turn.”

“My turn?”

“You have a secret. Everyone
does.”

“Certainly, but a lady’s charms
are diminished by revealing too much.”

“I am not referring to your
past. You can weave whatever fantasy suits you. I am referring to
the present. Why did you come to Graymalkin?”

She had feared for a moment he
was alluding to the fact she was the daughter of Sherlock Holmes
and Irene Adler, but of course he could not possibly know it.
Mycroft Holmes was the only person, other than Dr Watson, who knew
of it.

“As I explained that first
night at dinner - I inherited Graymalkin from my step-aunt and
decided to see for myself exactly what it was that I had
inherited.”

“And Dr Watson?”

“My dear friend and a native
Scot, being rather passionate about golf and wanting to make sure
his late wife’s niece was faring well, offered to accompany me when
he read about the Lammermoor tournament in the newspaper.”

“He is not your lover?”

She laughed. “I like him too
much to ever take him as a lover!”

“I am relieved to hear it,
though worryingly, it implies you are not averse to taking a lover
and that you would choose a man you actually dislike.”

Strange that talking about
possible lovers to a prospective husband was less fraught with
pitfalls than talking about why she had come to Graymalkin.

“I am not averse to taking a
lover, though I have not yet done so. If and when I do take a lover
I will certainly choose someone I like rather than loathe, though I
will think twice before ruining a good friendship.”

“Intimacy strengthens
friendship - the act of intercourse is raw and honest.”

Her step-aunt’s voice came back
to her – sex and friendship cancel each other out, sex is
play-acting, friendship is real - the former is transient, the
latter enduring…

“The act of intercourse is full
of conceit – that is what makes it so much fun but ultimately
self-defeating.”

He threw back his head and
laughed richly before meeting her gaze. “Speaking of conceit, you
still have not told me why you really came to Graymalkin?”

She quickly intuited a lie
would not suffice, and sometimes one secret needed to be exposed
for another to stay safely hidden. “Dr Watson was a great friend of
the detective Sherlock Holmes. They solved many mysteries together.
I’m afraid my dear friend now fancies himself as a bit of a
sleuth,” she dissembled convincingly. “The reasons I gave for our
coming are true, but you can add that he was intrigued by the three
deaths, four counting Mr Brown, and was keen to get to the bottom
of them.”

“Ah, that is why you pressed me
for my view on the matter?”

“I admit I was curious as to
what you thought since you have been here from the outset. Do you
consider the three deaths to be mere accidents? Or murder?”

“Murder,” he said.

“But why?”

“To destroy Lord Cruddock.”

“Who would wish such a
thing?”

“If Dr Watson is looking for a
culprit he is spoilt for choice. A rich man has no friends, only
levels of enemies. They are called Envy, Resentment, Revenge,
Righteousness, Jealousy, Greed, Ambition and Hate. I think Dr
Watson will find that the murderer is not an outsider. The
deadliest viper is the one underfoot.”

“Tell me about the Indian
Mutiny.”

Rain set in at midday when they
stopped for lunch at a farmhouse, and continued throughout the
afternoon. They arrived at Cruddock Castle in time for afternoon
tea. Dr Watson was amongst those waiting to greet them. Before the
Countess could enjoy a second cup of Mr Twinings the doctor had
ushered her into the landau and was whisking her back to
Graymalkin, talking eagerly about the events of the day.

“I tried to find out as much as
I could about Mr MacDuff without arousing his suspicion. He claims
to be a member of the Shepstone Golf Club and says he was
dispatched as an observer to report on the prospect of holding a
similar tournament next year at his club. But I am not convinced.
His explanation sounds far too similar to that of the Rajah of
Govinda and his knowledge of golf is poor and his caddying skills
laughable. What’s more, he arrived well after the tournament
commenced. He ended up caddying for Mr Larssensen after the three
murders sent everyone else packing. No other caddies were
forthcoming and he stepped up. I will be keeping a close eye on him
during the next few days.”