The Lammas Curse (34 page)

Dr Watson closed the double
doors and positioned himself discretely in an alcove by the French
window, one hand in his pocket, nervously fingering his service
revolver.

No one spoke. All understood
the gravitas of the gathering. This was not a social occasion. Each
person waited silently for the scene to run through the obligatory
script and hopefully end without too much drama.

It was two minutes after
twelve.

“Thank you for being prompt,”
said the Countess, who had been hanging back in the wings,
rehearsing in her head how best to phrase things once she took the
floor. “In the absence of Scotland Yard I have taken it upon myself
to unmask the thieves and murderers in our midst and I would like
to thank you for your co-operation.”

Co-operation had nothing to do
with it. They had no choice in the matter. Failing to turn up would
have placed them front and centre under a guilty spotlight.

“Scotland Yard
is
here,”
contradicted Mr MacDuff with throaty tonality, pushing to his feet.
“I am Detective Inspector MacDuff.” He waited for the gasps of
dismay to subside. “But since the Countess has called this meeting
and has taken the floor I will allow her to continue. I have taken
just one liberty, a precaution as befits my occupation. Footmen
have been posted outside each exit should anyone choose to flee
before we are done.” Graciously, he bowed his head and gestured for
her to go on, ignoring the chorus of disgruntlement that rippled
around the drawing room like the softly threatening rumble of
distant thunder.

As dismayed as the others, the
Countess nevertheless composed herself and acknowledged the
Detective Inspector with an equally gracious nod of her head.

“I do not intend to drag
matters out. I will deal with the four murders first. I refer to
the three golfers and the caddy. I thank Dr Watson at this point
for his carefully drawn conclusion, a conclusion many others may
also have reached, namely, that the golfing murders were committed
by Miss Dee and Mr Dee who were able to assume the guise of each
other and thus provide for themselves convincing alibis. We can
reasonably assume the first golfer, the world champion, was
eliminated from the contest to increase the chance of the Dees
winning. However, I suggest that the following two murders were
committed for the sake of publicity which many here have pointed
out as being of paramount importance to the success of the
tournament. I can personally attest that by the time the three
golfers had been killed every publication in the land, from
The
Times
to
The Penny Weekly
, featured an
article about the Lammermoor Golf Tournament. There was not a
single person who perused a newspaper who would not have heard of
the Lammermoor Golf Club. Human nature being what it is - bad
publicity is as effective as good publicity when it comes to
promoting a new venture and the power of publicity cannot be
underestimated.”

“What about those witchy things
– the corn dolly and such like?” blurted Mr Bancoe, briefly turning
his gaze away from the tantalizing decanters winking on the
sideboard. “I say the murders were done by witches!”

“Please don’t interrupt,”
reprimanded the Countess somewhat frostily. “I will answer any
questions at the end if anything remains unclear. As for the Wicca
symbols - I suggest they were placed at the scene by the Dees to
point the finger at Mother MacBee.”

She knew full well this was a
lie but a forthright tone is always convincing.

MacBee was suddenly thrust into
the spotlight. She stood her ground and stared unblinkingly from
under the hood of her Black Watch tartan, fixing each gazer with
the evil eye - lips pressed tight, as if the top and bottom had
been sewn together with needle and thread.

“The fourth death,” continued
the Countess, bringing the spotlight back to herself, mightily
relieved that MacBee chose not to contradict her, “namely that of
Mr Brown, was also committed by the Dees. We can assume with
reasonable certainty that Mr Brown was blackmailing someone because
Mrs Ardkinglas saw a note he had written implying as much. We can
also assume he was waiting to meet someone in the kitchen courtyard
at the time he died, as he had been there for some time, smoking
cigarettes, yet it was not a place he would normally have gone for
a smoke. The kitchen staff happened to be absent on that particular
day making it a good place to meet without being observed. We also
know he had confided in Mr MacDuff that he had just had a turn of
luck that would see him right – indicating he was expecting some
money to come his way. From that we can infer with some certainty
that he was blackmailing the Dees.”

MacDuff confirmed her summation
with a nod of his head.

Apart from the Countess, no one
noticed the dark look Mrs Ardkinglas flashed her hooded sister for
the part she may have played regarding the details of such an
inference being reached by the speaker. They were all fidgeting
with buttons, brooches, bracelets, handkerchiefs and cuff-links, or
nervously knitting their fingers together, over and under, in and
out. Some had chosen to shove their hands in their pockets to avoid
giving way to tell-tale nerves.

The Countess had been standing
in front of the carved stone mantelpiece with its distinctive
gothic design but now paced slowly to the large gothic window where
daylight came flooding in behind her, enabling her to better
scrutinise the occupants of the room.

“Let me explain further
pertaining to this murder. I believe someone borrowed a costume
from the Scottish play to disguise themselves before stealing
across to the Marmion Hydro Hotel to kill Mr Brown with the intent
of putting an end to any chance of blackmail. The most likely
candidate was Carter Dee. A person of his stature and fitting his
description wearing a tartan costume from the play was spotted
twice during the same day that the caddy was murdered. He was
spotted going towards and then away from the hotel by the
woodchopper, Ned Dawes, who assumed the man was a poacher because
of his furtiveness.”

“The killer must have killed my
husband too!” cried her ladyship, mopping faux tears.

“I will get to the death of
Lord Cruddock in a moment,” responded the Countess.

“The Dees must have stolen the
tiara as well!” flared the Viking, patting his beloved’s hand.

“Perhaps the tiara was stolen
by you and your lover!” hissed Lady Moira.

“How dare you!” screeched the
new Lady Cruddock, sounding not a bit sonorous. “When this is over
I’ll throw you out once and for all! You will never cross the
threshold again, you bitter old hag!”

“Calm down! Calm down!”
attempted the judge, making it sound like: Order! Order!

“You said you would reveal the
whereabouts of my factotum,” persisted the Rajah, fingering the
jewelled hilt of his dagger.

“I will reveal all in due
course,” sighed the Countess, trying to be heard above the constant
stream of mutterings and the impassioned interruptions that were
derailing her train of thought. “The Dees did not steal the tiara
because -”

“How can you say that with
certainty?” challenged Mr Larssensen. “They were probably burying
it out by the abbey ruins when they were gored by the stag!”

“That’s enough!” warned Mr
MacDuff. “The next person to interrupt will be locked in the cellar
until we have finished.” He turned to the Countess. “Please
proceed.”

“Perhaps we could have some
morning tea,” suggested the Countess tactfully, sensing the pent-up
emotions bubbling up like a stewpot about to boil over. “Most
people missed breakfast. Rajah, if you would be so good as to
summon the butler. You seem to be closest to the bell pull.”

“No one is to leave the room,”
warned MacDuff, aiming a meaningful glance at the doctor who was
still standing guard nearest to the French window, his revolver at
the ready.

Everyone began perambulating
the vast confines of the drawing room, talking in hushed tones the
way tourists do in a museum, stiffly circumambulating the
furniture, weaving in and out and roundabout. Someone spotted a
Faberge enamelled etui and several people lit up a cigarette. The
Rajah stoked the fire while Mr Bancoe helped himself to a dry
sherry and offered one to the judge. MacBee kept her distance from
her scowling sisters.

Dr Watson stood alone in front
of the French window, hands in his pockets, and gazed out across
the links, thinking back to his first night at Cruddock Castle. He
had felt honoured to be among such an illustrious and exotic crowd.
Now he could barely bring himself to look at them. Was it old age?
Or was it him? He felt disheartened with society, with people in
general, with himself. He felt disappointed. Yes, that was it. The
people he met were disappointing. The circle he moved in was
perennially disappointing. Only one person had never disappointed
him. Sherlock had always been true to himself – that good old
Shakespearean line trotted out at valedictorian dinners and speech
nights! He hoped to God the Countess knew what she was doing. He
didn’t think he could stand to be disappointed any more than he
already was.

Mrs Ross and Mrs Ardkinglas
dispensed the tea and coffee as soon as it arrived while Miss
Lambert helped to serve slices of Dundee cake. Heated tempers had
cooled and everyone retook their same seats in a calmer frame of
mind.

“As I was saying,” recommenced
the Countess, replacing her empty teacup on a tray table, “the Dees
did not steal the tiara - neither the real one nor the fake.”

Anticipating a stream of
disbelieving gasps, she paused for a moment. Someone checked a cry
and several voices uttered stunned surprise but heeding Mr
MacDuff’s earlier warning about sitting it out in the cellar no one
voiced their thoughts audibly enough to be evicted. Lady Moira
opened and closed her mouth like a puffer fish gasping for air,
while the new Lady Cruddock fanned her flushed face with a black
silk fan.

“Yes, there were two tiaras,”
the Countess confirmed in answer to the unasked question that sat
on everyone’s lips. “The real tiara was sold to the Rajah to pay
off his lordship’s gambling debts. And though his lordship is now
dead and cannot confirm as much, the Rajah has the deed of sale to
prove it. I saw the deed on the desk in his cabin when I spent the
night on his ship. The Lammas tiara, originally called the Govinda
tiara, was once the property of the Rajah’s family and purloined by
Colonel Fotheringay during the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857 before passing
into the hands of Lord Cruddock. A substitute tiara was crafted to
fool the dowager and the present Lady Cruddock. However, it must be
said, Lord Cruddock loved his wife dearly and wanted her to wear
the real tiara on her wedding day. The Rajah agreed to the delay of
sale for that reason.”

“That doesn’t explain where the
tiaras are at present,” rasped Lady Moira.

“I’m getting to that,” replied
the Countess. “As soon as I realized there were two tiaras the
first robbery became much clearer, that is to say, the criminal
field narrowed considerably. The thief did not know he had stolen
the fake tiara but the Rajah and his lordship did know it. The real
tiara was kept in the priest’s hole in his lordship’s study. I
deduced where the fake tiara had been hidden after it had been
stolen and stole it back from the thief and wore it on the wedding
night, concealed beneath ivy and heather. I convinced his lordship
to instruct his wife to leave the real tiara in her bedroom on the
wedding night and to spend the night in his bedchamber. Lady
Cruddock did as instructed and I thank her sincerely. During the
night I was able to slip into her room and substitute the fake
tiara for the real one. Consequently, the person who stole the
tiara from her room has the fake one and I have the real one in my
possession which I will give to the Rajah when we are done.”

“So who stole the fake tiara?”
hazarded Mr Larssensen, momentarily forgetting himself, feeling
slightly confused about there being two tiaras.

“There were two thefts of the
fake tiara. The first theft of the fake tiara from the library I
will explain shortly. The most recent theft, the one last night,
was perpetrated by a person who was observed in the act by my
manservant who had concealed himself in the room at the time. It
was Mr Chandrapur.”

“The jackal!” shouted the Rajah
furiously, knocking a Dresden statuette from the mantel and
catching it before it hit the floor. “I will have him flogged and
crushed by an elephant!”

“I don’t think you need go that
far,” said the Countess matter-of-factly. “When you return with the
real tiara and everyone realizes he has the fake, he will be
rendered powerless. Peace will be restored not by violence and
vengeance but by humility and mercy. The man who holds the talisman
– remember?”

“So who stole the fake tiara
from the library?” pressed Mr Larssensen, catching up.

“Be patient,” warned MacDuff.
“All will be revealed in good time.”

“The person who stole the fake
tiara from the library is here with us in this room,” continued the
Countess, proceeding more confidently now that she had managed to
reach thus far without things coming to blows. “Several clues
alerted me to the thief. Firstly, a fleck of white fluff on the
sleeve of Dr Watson’s jacket as he searched for clues. Secondly, a
person who had somewhere to conceal the tiara after he stole it,
should he bump into a fellow guest during his midnight meandering.
Thirdly, the hiding spot - an ingenious spot that flashed to mind
after I saw the oil painting in Lord Cruddock’s study and noted the
level rows of chimney stacks. Fourthly, someone who arrived late
for the first rehearsal because they had been busy searching Miss
O’Hara’s dressing-room.”