The Lammas Curse (33 page)

“What can this mean?” he
blustered like a third rate actor strutting some provincial stage
as he attempted to calm his unhappy bride – with Nessie nipping at
his heels.

The sobbing bride danced around
the little Scottie to avoid having her peignoir shredded. “Deal
with it, Duncan!” she shouted at her husband of one night as she
detached some French finery from Scottish fangs. “You will find me
in my boudoir – I have a furious headache! And keep that rabid
flea-bag away from me!”

“Miss Dee and Mr Dee did not
come down to breakfast,” muttered Judge Cruddock, sounding
concerned and helpful at the same time, ignoring the trail of
ripped lace and the insult to his dear little Scottie who was now
weeing on a corner of the Persian carpet. “I don’t know if that is
significant.”

“Let’s check their rooms,
starting with the brother,” foamed the Viking uncouthly, striding
forth to the bachelor’s wing like Harald Hardrader storming
Stamford Bridge.

The Old Salt followed in his
foamy wake, feeling bolder than Admiral Nelson at Trafalgar, as he
aimed a cannon-ball kick at the little biter. “Call back yer
doggie, Judge, or I will not be held responsible!”

“I have not seen my factotum
all morning,” complained the Rajah in a disgruntled tone, but no
one was paying attention except Nessie who was suddenly drawn to
some bejewelled slippers like a mongoose to a cobra. “I had to
complete my toilette unaided and was forced to dress - Ouch!”

“A breakfast tray to my room,
Miss Lambert,” frothed Lady Moira as she stepped into a damp patch.
“See to it at once! And keep this incontinent canine away from
me!”

Dr Watson rushed off to check
the bedroom of Miss Dee.

The Rajah followed hot on his
heels before Nessie took a liking to his other slipper.

Judge Cruddock tried to coax
Nessie away from the Chippendale she had taken a sudden fancy to as
his lordship threw up his hands and withdrew to his sanctum.

Alone, the Countess returned to
the breakfast room blithely unaware that the scene she had just
witnessed was the beginning of the scarlet thread unravelling.

She had just poured herself a
fresh cup of Darjeeling when Hamish and Thane entered through the
French window. Hamish Ross was a hard-working young man of serious
demeanour and this particular morning he was looking more
preoccupied and more serious than usual.

“Can you tell me where I might
find Lord Cruddock?” he asked without even offering a courteous
good-morning.

“I think you will find him in
his private study. Is everything all right? You look worried.”

“You may as well know. You will
learn it soon enough. The Dees are dead. I just came across their
bodies at the abbey ruin -”

The Countess caught back a gasp
and almost spilled hot tea down the front of her silk tartan day
dress. “Did they jump from the parapet? Was it suicide?”

“No, no, it was not suicide –
thank God for that because I have not yet had the stairs dismantled
– no, no, they have been gored by a stag.”

“A stag!”

“Yes, I can hardly believe it
myself. It is vexing. There is no abature.”

“Abature?”

“No trampling of grass, no hoof
prints, no sign that any stag has been there at all and yet they
have the wounds to prove it, though…” He stopped abruptly and his
brows furrowed.

“You were saying?”

“Stags are extremely tall. I
have only ever come across three deaths caused by stags and the men
were all gored in the throat. The Dees were gored in the stomach.
The only thing I can think to explain it would be if they were
standing on the stones but then I cannot imagine a stag charging up
the stones. But there it is. I left MacBee to watch the bodies
while I hurried here to inform Lord Cruddock.”

“MacBee was with you when you
found the bodies?”

He had reached the door and
paused abruptly. “No, no, she arrived a few moments later. She was
out gathering herbs and wildflowers.”

“Is she…is she all right?”

“Yes, she’s fine,” he dismissed
quickly, indicating he was not privy to the family secret. “I asked
her to watch over the bodies. I thought Dr Watson might want to
take a look and I didn’t want anyone else to interfere with the
bodies in the meantime. I better let his lordship know. Stay here,
boy!” he directed at his loyal companion as he pulled open the door
and scanned the hall. “Can you keep an eye on Thane? I don’t want
Nessie taking another snap at him. The wound she inflicted during
her last visit took months to heal. Put him out if he bothers you.
I won’t be long.”

The Countess tossed Thane
several rashers of crispy bacon before following after Hamish. She
wanted to hear what his lordship would make of the deaths of his
god-children. And it was just as well she did. Lord Cruddock was
sprawled on his back across his desk, lying in a warm sticky pool
of blood which was oozing from a deep wound to his neck and
dripping onto the floor, soaking into a tartan rug. He had been
stabbed in the throat with a sharp weapon and the attack had
happened recently, the body and the blood were still warm.

The tidy state of the room led
them to believe no violent struggle had taken place. Lord Cruddock
must have been taken by surprise by someone standing at the door,
someone who lashed out, stabbed him in the throat, and caused him
to fall backwards onto his desk. There were splatters of blood
everywhere, including a large red splotch on the oil painting by
Septimus Decimus Cox behind the desk. Blood must have spurted from
the carotid artery like a fountain in full flow. Hamish Ross looked
closely at the weapon sticking out of the side of his lordship’s
neck and his body stiffened.

“It is not a dagger I see
before me,” he said, his voice thick and clotted.

The Countess had already noted
the smooth wooden handle of the weapon. She was familiar with the
rounded shape that fit comfortably into the palm of a lady’s hand.
“It is a bodkin,” she said. “The type used for basket-weaving. The
blade will be 5 inches in length.”

The significance of the weapon
was not lost on either of them.

Male voices filtered up the
spiral stairs. The men had apparently finished searching the
bedrooms of the Dees and had met up at the top of the landing. The
dry throaty rumble of Mr Bancoe came first.

“Mr Dee’s bed has not been
slept in.”

Dr Watson’s modulated tone came
next. “Neither has Miss Dee’s bed been disturbed.”

“They have fled with the
tiara!” thundered the Viking. “The security here is laughable! Lord
Cruddock is a drunken fool! His wife’s safety, not his next dram,
should be his prime concern!”

The voice of reason did little
to calm the Viking. “I admit it looks bad for the Dees,” said the
doctor. “Lord Cruddock needs to instigate a thorough search before
they get too far - the sooner the better.”

“Where on earth is my
factotum?” mumbled the Rajah, deftly avoiding the damp patch on the
Persian rug, but no one was listening.

“Where on earth is Lord
Cruddock?” growled the Viking.

“His lordship is in his study,”
replied the Countess calmly, materializing at the base of the
spiral stairs, Hamish at her back, “but I’m afraid he won’t be
organizing a search, nor will it be necessary. He is dead and so
are the Dees.”

No one spoke for several
moments. The news took a while to sink in and even then each man
insisted on taking a brief look into the study, navigating the
narrow spiral stairs one after another to confirm the grim reality
for himself. By the time they had all re-marshalled on the landing,
shell-shocked by the sight of so much blood and baffled by the
choice of weapon and totally confounded by the inexplicable death
of the Dees by a stag, the Countess who had the clearest grasp of
all that had transpired for reasons that would soon become clear to
all, and who had had the most amount of time to think about the
whys and wherefores and the whereto now, took charge before anyone
else had the wherewithal to do so.

Three years of marriage to a
dynamic man had taught her that men were creatures of action.
Moreover, they were accustomed to following orders if those orders
were delivered with a voice of authority. Following-through on a
mission was something they instinctively understood, especially if
that mission had a solid rather than an abstract outcome. She spoke
directly and authoritatively, addressing each man one after the
other, tasking them with something that would contribute to that
outcome – namely unmasking the thief and the murderer. They were to
assemble in the drawing room at midday.

“Mr Bancoe, please inform my
coachman, Horace, to fetch Mrs Ross, Mrs Ardkinglas and Mr MacDuff
and bring here forthwith.”

“Mr Ross, please return to the
abbey ruins with some strong men and bring back the bodies of Miss
Dee and Mr Dee, and make sure to bring MacBee back with you, even
if you have to carry her yourself, kicking and screaming.”

“Mr Larssensen, please inform
her ladyship of the death of her husband and his two god-children
and see to it that she is in the drawing room at noon minus any
histrionics.”

“Rajah, if you would please
locate the judge and inform him we are meeting in the drawing room
at midday. I think you might find him in the garden walking his
dog. I spotted him through the study window heading toward the
loch.”

“What about my factotum?” the
Rajah mumbled as he shuffled his feet. “I fear things don’t look
good for him. Though I cannot understand why he did not use, er,
never mind.”

“Don’t worry about your
factotum,” she dismissed. “I know where he is. I will explain his
whereabouts to you when we re-assemble.”

Dr Watson waited for the others
to leave. “I’ll go back to the study and examine the scene for
clues.”

“Don’t bother with that,” she
returned briskly. “I know who killed Lord Cruddock. You need to
inform Lady Moira and Miss Lambert of his death, plus that of the
Dees. Your calm bedside manner will act better than any panacea,
but you had better take your medical bag just in case. Make sure
they understand they need to be in the drawing room for twelve
o’clock sharp.”

“You know who stole the tiara
and who the murderer is?” he called after her as she sprinted down
the stairs, his voice incredulous and mystified.

“Yes,” she called back over her
shoulder.

“Where are you going now?”

“To finish my breakfast!”

“This is most unorthodox,”
mumbled Dr Watson morosely as he and the Countess waited for the
others to arrive in the drawing room. He couldn’t help feeling his
counterpart was staging a drama to rival the Scottish play in order
to demonstrate her cleverness. She had changed into a dramatic silk
tussore day dress featuring bold ecossaise-style check patterning.
But her vanity might yet be her undoing. It could all go horribly
wrong and backfire like one of those fireworks that suddenly
explode without warning causing terrible injuries to those in the
vicinity. Did she really know who stole the tiara? Could she truly
say who killed Lord Cruddock after such a cursory inspection of the
murder scene? And gathering all the suspects together to unmask the
culprit or culprits! It was an invitation to a disaster that might
put innocent lives at risk!

“Sherlock would not have gone
in for this sort of melodrama,” the doctor pointed out bluntly,
agitated and restless now, checking the time on his pocket watch as
he paced up and down beneath a plethora of fan-vaulting, blind to
the architectural magnificence and the fabulous bibelots that had
once held him spellbound. “If you know who the thief and the
murderer are why not just have them locked up until Scotland Yard
arrive. A detective inspector should be here any time soon. I
cannot imagine what has delayed him,” he finished irritably,
glancing once more at his watch.

It was ten minutes before
twelve.

“Oh, do sit down,” she rebuked
tetchily. “You are wearing out the Aubusson! I need to think and
you are distracting me with your carping.”

Good grief! That comment did
not bode well! She was about to stage a play for which she had not
even prepared a script. This gathering had all the hallmarks of a
Shakespearean tragedy with her starring in the lead role and he
forced into the role of luckless Falstaff. He was about to turn on
his heel when the door flew open and the first of the dramatis
personae made their entrance and he knew it was too late to cancel
the performance.

Judge Cruddock and Nessie were
the first to arrive. They entered via the dining room. The judge
parked himself on a
fauteuil
by the
Louis Quatorze bureau
plat
, Nessie on his lap, where she could cast a doggy eye over
proceedings and size up the sport to be had.

Mrs Ross, Mrs Ardkinglas and Mr
MacDuff came next through the door leading from the alabaster
entrance hall. They found Chippendale chairs positioned around the
edges of the room and selected those which they deemed least
conspicuous.

Mr Bancoe shambled in a few
moments later using the same door as the judge. He found an
armchair angled near to the sideboard on which sat some decanters
of sweet and dry sherry.

Lady Moira, Miss Lambert and
the Rajah of Govinda arrived together. The two ladies chose the
settee by the fireplace. The Rajah chose to stand by the elaborate
gothic mantel, one hand resting on the carved ledge, the other
touching on his ceremonial dagger.

Through the French window came
Hamish Ross with a reluctant MacBee in tow, glowering and cursing.
Nessie took one look at Thane, guarding the terrace, and launched
herself at the glass, barking ferociously. Someone opened the
French window and out she burst as if she had a fire-cracker tied
to her tail, chasing after the Gordon setter who took off like the
wind. The brief explosion sets hearts thrumming but was quickly
forgotten when in sashayed the new Lady Cruddock, stunning in black
satin and a triple-stranded pearl choker, leaning heavily on the
arm of her illicit paramour, Mr Larssensen. They sat together on
the settee
vis-à-vis
Lady Moira and Miss Lambert, as if to
directly challenge the old order.