The Lammas Curse (4 page)

“I take it that means you will
soon be placing an advertisement in the
Times
: V & W,
Consulting Detectives, 221B Baker Street, London – no case too
difficult.”

Dr Watson guffawed loudly
before remembering where he was and gagging on his own spit. “I
wish I could say
Never
with conviction, but before we
boarded the Devon train for our return trip to London I vowed never
to become embroiled in another mystery with the Countess and by the
time we reached Paddington I had already gone back on my word. I
swear I don’t know if I acted of my own accord or whether she
railroaded me into it.”

“So you’ve already started work
on another case?”

“Not exactly. But if I am not
intruding upon your time I wouldn’t mind hearing what you have to
say concerning the venture we are about to embark upon.”

“Not at all, old boy. Let’s
ring for a coffee and then you can tell me all about it.”

Mycroft moved to the bell pull
on the other side of the fireplace and gave it two hard yanks, the
number of yanks indicating that coffee was the beverage being
called for. He also threw some more fuel on the fire and gave the
coals a bit of a prod with the poker to save the butler the task,
thus minimizing interruption. Dr Watson drained his whiskey and
began to breath normally again, relieved he was not about to be
shamefully booted out.

After the coffee had been
delivered and dispensed he broached the second topic that had
brought him halfway across London on a nippy autumn evening.

“What do you know about the
Lammermoor golf tournament?” he said, leaving the question
deliberately open-ended.

Mycroft’s ghost of a smile
indicated that he knew quite a bit. “I know that Scotland Yard is
checking into it as we speak. I also know that Lord Cruddock is
putting pressure on our finest detectives to come to a swift and
decisive conclusion.”

“Oh,” said the doctor feeling
suddenly disappointed. “They will resolve matters fairly quickly
and the tournament will continue.”

“The tournament will continue,
yes, but I wouldn’t say they will resolve anything anytime soon.
They will conclude the three deaths to be accidental.”

“Is that your opinion too?”

Mycroft spooned some sugar into
his coffee and stirred it soundlessly before securing the gaze of
his listener. “You play golf, Dr Watson. What are the chances of
three players in the same tournament succumbing to fatal accidents
in the space of a fortnight?”

“So you don’t believe they were
accidents?”

“What was it Sherlock always
said about coincidence?”

“Mmm, yes,” recalled the
doctor, “but the first death puzzles me. It would be devilishly
hard to hit someone on the head with a stray golf ball. I don’t
consider myself a bad player but I would have to hit a million golf
balls before I could hit a target like that and it is all down to
pure luck - a bit like a hole in one. There would be a million
easier ways to kill a person. It is a most unlikely murder.”

“No argument there, but what if
you hit them on the back of the head with the end of a nine iron
and then after they had slumped to the ground you rammed a golf
ball into their skull in the exact same spot where the nine iron
had made a dent, and the ball was covered with blood and the nine
iron was nowhere to be seen?” conjectured Mycroft. “The next person
to come along would quite rightly conclude the deceased had been
struck by a stray ball.”

“Oh, yes, I see - if there were
no witnesses, that is, but what about the caddy?”

“The caddy was not out
caddying. The golfer in question, Chuck Fitzalan, had decided to go
out on his own in the early hours of the morning to acquaint
himself with the layout of the fairways. There were no other
players out on the links at the time but some of the local lads
often hunt for stray golf balls which they sell at the market, and
sometimes they have a few hits on the sly at the same time. The
ball in question did not appear to have an owner. And since it was
the first death no one was looking for it to be murder.”

“Just a freak accident.”

“Exactly.”

“And the second accident? Was
the caddy conveniently absent?”

“The Italian, Giuseppe Sforza,
had his caddy with him, but the caddy noticed that the putter was
not in the bag soon after they set off so he rushed back to the
golf pavilion to get it before they reached the first green. In the
meantime, Mr Sforza played on and must have hit his ball into or
near a water hazard and somehow ended up in the water too. He was
found tangled in some bull rushes. The water was only ten inches
deep.”

“No signs of any contusions? No
signs of a struggle?”

“Nothing of any significance
apart from a large bruise to his chin conducive to suffering a
severe knock after slipping on wet grass, landing face first,
rolling down an embankment and ending up in a shallow pool. The
caddy panicked on seeing the body floating face down and
immediately cried out for help. By the time a dozen people trampled
the scene there was no chance to check for footprints. Again, no
one was assuming it was murder.”

“The bruise on the chin could
have been from a knock-out punch to the jaw making it an easy thing
to hold the head down until drowning occurred,” suggested the
doctor, drawing from experience. “And the third death?”

“Peter Lancaster, the
Australian, was taking a shortcut from the twelfth fairway to the
thirteenth when a tree branch fell on him, killing him instantly.
His death was a little more interesting than the previous two.
There was thick fog so visibility was poor. The caddy had hung back
to mark the scorecard while Mr Lancaster had hurried ahead and
taken the shortcut through a woody bosque in order to relieve
himself, so it could not have been a pre-meditated act but simply
opportune and daring.”

“What sort of bosque?”

“A spinney of silver birch
trees.”

“Birches are not renowned for
dropping large branches – twigs, yes.”

“Quite correct, but the branch
did happen to strike him on the top of the head as if it fell from
on high.”

“Someone could have wielded it
and brought it down to make it look that way,” the doctor
volunteered.

“Yes, and since it was the
third death it needed to look accidental in all respects.”

“I suppose no one checked to
see if the branch had broken loose recently, I mean, that the break
was fresh, not weathered by time?”

“No one checked, as you say,
and the branch soon ended up as firewood, but after three
unfortunate accidents the tournament was halted. The local police
constable did his best but he was out of his depth and probably
felt intimidated by his lordship.”

“Who called in the Yard?”

“Lady Moira Cruddock, mother of
the current Lord Cruddock. He was hostile to the idea of bringing
in the Yard because of the negative publicity but she went ahead
and did it anyway. She lives in the gatehouse, not at the castle,
and has made no secret of the fact she is vehemently opposed to her
son turning the Lammas moor into a golf course.”

“Oh, yes, I remember reading
that she is a Spiritualist of some renown who believes that the
spirits of the dead have been disturbed.”

“A nice story to put about if
one is planning to nip the golf course in the bud, not that I am
suggesting she is a murderess. There is more to this mystery than
meets the eye.”

“In what way?”

“You could say: in witch
way.”

“Which way?”

“Witch as in Wicca – and though
I might make a pun of it the Scottish take their witchcraft
seriously.”

“No need to remind me of the
black stain on Scottish history and the horrible suffering
inflicted on so many innocent souls, but I don’t see the connection
to the three deaths.”

“Some details were officially
suppressed to avoid superstitious panic.”

Dr Watson gulped the dregs of
his coffee and carefully replaced his cup and saucer on the
butler’s tray. “Please go on,” he said, his interest in the case
rising above and beyond its connection to his Scottish roots.

“The first deceased, Chuck
Fitzalan, was found with his left hand splayed out and the two
middle fingers missing. At first it appeared as if they had been
cut off. But there was no blood apart from the head injury. The
fingers were merely bent back in the classic horned god pose.”

“Deliberate or…I was going to
say
coincidental
but I must wean myself off that word! Who
was the first person on the scene?”

“Two people - Lars Larsenssen
and Bruce Bancoe. They are a player-pair and decided to also
acquaint themselves with the course when they spotted the American
setting off to explore the links prior to breakfast. They quickly
finished their own breakfast and followed about twenty minutes
after the American. Mr Fitzalan was a left-hander and they noticed
straight away that his golfing hand looked odd. Try it,” invited
Mycroft. “Bend your two middle fingers under.”

“I see what you mean. It
doesn’t feel natural. The knuckles protrude if you try to make the
whole of the fingers disappear.”

“Even more so if your hand is
resting on the ground. It was discovered later that the knuckles
were broken, as if someone had trod on his hand rather brutally to
flatten if out.”

“So much for the notion of
coincidence – an important lesson to learn before I travel to
Scotland! What about death number two, the Italian?”

“Mr Sforza - found floating
face down in what amounted to not much more than a large puddle -
was not alone in the water. Tangled in the bull rushes was also a
cat – drowned.”

Dr Watson’s eyebrows expressed
incredulity. “A moggy drowning in a puddle is most unlikely. I
presume it was a black cat?”

Mycroft nodded approvingly.
“You are starting to get the picture.”

Encouraged, the doctor’s brain
hurried ahead. “That brings us to number three.”

“A corn dolly was found
dangling from the tree that had decided to drop its limb at the
exact same time that Mr Lancaster had decided to relieve
himself.”

“Mmm, I see,” murmured the
doctor, rubbing the unshaven chin which was showing the early
makings of a beard, “the picture grows clearer.”

“Or becomes more obscure,”
countered Mycroft judiciously. “Are these murders about vaulting
ambition – winning the tournament at all costs by eliminating the
competition – or are they about shutting down the golf course by
foul means not fair – pointing the finger at some harmless old
women by stirring the cauldron of superstition and fear? When are
you intending to leave for Scotland?”

“I have reserved a private
smoker on The Royal Scot for the Countess and myself for the end of
this week, plus two second class seats for her maid and manservant.
She never travels without them. I have not yet decided whether they
are Ukrainian Cossacks or Bolshevik provocateurs.”

Mycroft’s brows lifted, a sign
that he was processing this last bit of information with heightened
interest. “Where are you planning to stay?”

“The Countess owns an old peel
tower at the southern end of Loch Maw. It may be a crumbling ruin.
It belonged to her late aunt. She has never seen it. If it turns
out to be uninhabitable we will take rooms at the Marmion Hydro
Hotel.”

“Are you acquainted with Lord
Cruddock?”

Dr Watson shook his head.

“I will let his lordship know
you are holidaying in the area and that you enjoy a game of golf.
It will serve as an introduction. He’s an Oxford man, not too
high-brow, a couple of thirds, but a first class sportsman and a
keen shot. The Cruddock estate is about 30,000 acres, most of it
given over to deer stalking and a pheasant shoot, with some grazing
of sheep and an ancient forest of Caledonian pine for timber, but
there isn’t the money in such pursuits as there used to be and his
lordship has lost a considerable fortune lately on the baccarat
tables of London, hence the proposal to establish a golf course to
supplement his income. You are aware he is engaged to be married to
the Irish actress, Lola O’Hara?”

“A bit of a cliché – a lord and
an actress. I realize she is a looker but I cannot help feeling
cynical when I hear of such mis-matches.”

“I think he will get more out
of the mis-match than she. She will bring esprit to a remote estate
and put an isolated golf course on the map. He will get tons of
free publicity, especially in Ireland and America. She will get a
tiara that she can wear several times a year. Quite frankly, I
think she has drawn the short straw.”

Dr Watson nodded weakly and
pushed to his feet. He felt weighed down and wearied at the
prospect of another battle with the forces of evil so soon after
the last. “I won’t take up any more of your valuable time. I
appreciate that you are a busy man and I thank you for seeing me at
such short notice. Good evening to you, Mr Holmes.”

“Never too busy for you, Dr
Watson,” said the other, employing a warm and brotherly tone as he
ushered him to the door. “I will let you know what I decide about
the Countess as soon as I have decided it. Until then it may be
prudent to keep certain matters to ourselves while we keep a close
eye on her. By the way, the invitation to join our modest club
stands open should you change your mind. Take care in Scotland.
There is more to this matter than meets the eye.”

Big Ben struck midnight as Dr
Watson hugged the perpendicular shadows of Pall Mall, leaning into
the wind that whipped through the stately avenue and flogged the
dead leaves littering the gutter. Eschewing a hansom, he turned a
corner, and then another, and soon found himself in a darker place,
where the hissing gas lamps burned dimmer, muffled by a dirty
woolly yellow fog that burned his throat and lungs. His footsteps
hardly made a sound as he navigated the narrow lanes like a
noctambulist, ghostwalking the city that never sleeps, running the
murky gauntlet of gutter-crawlers, pimps and prostitutes, thieves
and murderers, without even thinking about where he was going,
before realising three things quite suddenly in quick succession
with a jolt that brought him up sharp: Number 1 - he still held
misgivings about the mysterious young woman who had appeared from
nowhere and taken over his life. Number 2 - if not for the fact the
next case took them to Scotland he would never have agreed to go
with her. Number 3 - Mycroft, a man not given to repeating himself,
had twice used the term: more than meets the eye.