The Lammas Curse (8 page)

They had opted not to take a
train to Duns after Lady Moira informed them it was practically the
same distance to Loch Maw from Duns as it was from Edinburgh to
Loch Maw. Nevertheless, the journey swallowed up the better part of
the day especially as darkness fell early in this part of the
world. It was already creeping up behind them when they began
skirting the western edge of the loch and by the time they reached
the Marmion Hydro Hotel, where they decided to stop for dinner -
grey day had turned into black night.

Disappointingly, the Marmion
Hydro Hotel did not live up to the glowing description in
Sporting Life
. It was actually a rundown hunting lodge that
had seen better days and was redeemed only by the baronial style of
architecture so popular in Scotland, with the mandatory pepperpot
turrets that seemed to ooze eternal charm. To claim it had fifteen
bedrooms seemed wildly optimistic. Half of the bedrooms could have
been no bigger than broom closets. Nevertheless, its real saving
grace was its position – perched on the edge of the loch and
offering an uninterrupted view of the picturesque ruins of Lammas
Abbey on the opposite shore, a view which was currently denied to
them by a lack of moonlight.

Mrs Ardkinglas, the owner of
the hotel, was at the reception desk when they arrived. She was a
stern-faced woman in her fifties, dressed entirely in black, with
dark hair and piercing dark eyes. Some blowsy and austere
widows-weeds did not do justice to her excellent figure. She came
out from behind her desk and greeted them as if she had been
expecting them. When they glanced quizzical she explained that
Hamish Ross, the ghillie from Cruddock Castle, had informed her
that the new owner of Graymalkin would be setting forth from
Edinburgh that morning in the company of the famous author, Dr John
Watson, and they would be sure to stop by on their way to the old
tower.

“I have kept some dinner on the
stove for you,” she delivered in a thick Scottish accent that
warmed the cockles of Dr Watson’s heart. “Some Mulligatawny soup
and some smoked trout and buttered potatoes,” she said, leading
them to a small dining room.

“I have three hungry servants
who will also be requiring a hearty meal,” the Countess addressed
to Mrs Ardkinglas.

“They can eat in the kitchen. I
will make sure they are promptly seen to.”

“Everyone else must be in the
grand dining room,” observed Dr Watson, noting the one round table
set for two in the centre of the round room.

“The grand dining room is
closed as we do not have many guests at present,” replied Mrs
Ardkinglas. “You are the only dinner guests tonight so I have set
the table in the round tower.”

“I presumed you would be fully
booked,” said the Countess, somewhat surprised. “I read that the
caddies and assistants are all staying here. And there must be
dozens of keen golfers eager to be part of a sporting
spectacle?”

“We were fully booked up until
the third death,” she explained grimly. “The guests started to
trickle away after that, frightened off by talk of dead spirits and
curses and such, and when the tournament was halted indefinitely,
and detectives arrived from Scotland Yard - that scared off the
last of them. The assistants got the wind-up when a superstitious
old fool swore he saw three witches in Jackdaw Wood. When he got a
toothache and another fool got a sty, and another fool developed a
limp, that was the end of them, they high-tailed it back to Duns as
fast as they could run. And then last night two more players
withdrew even though the tournament is now going ahead.”

“Which two?” asked Dr
Watson.

“The two Canadians.”

“That only leaves four
players,” he calculated. “Mr Larssensen, Mr Bancoe and the
Dees.”

“Yes,” she confirmed unhappily
before continuing. “The two Canadian caddies checked out this
morning, quick to follow their masters. There are now only two
caddies left and no assistants. Gardeners at Cruddock Castle have
been roped in to help with the tournament so that it doesn’t
fold.”

“Would you like the golf course
to go ahead?” quizzed the Countess.

“Yes,” said Mrs Ardkinglas
without hesitation. “It will be good for business. We don’t have
many tourists venturing this way, just a few hikers and ramblers,
mainly in the summer months. The serious stalkers and shooters
prefer the Highlands. I had to give the Swiss chef his marching
orders yesterday. If business doesn’t pick up I may have to sell
the place to the Cruddocks. The old hunting lodge belonged to my
husband’s family. It was my husband’s intention to turn it as a
fine hotel but then,” she faltered and swallowed dry, “he died
suddenly. I don’t think I can carry on much longer - not on my
own.”

That brief conversation gave
them food for thought while they ate their dinner.

After their meal, Dr Watson
went to round up Horace, Xenia and Fedir and it was more bad news.
Horace had heard the story about the three witches and nothing
would induce him to travel through Jackdaw Wood after dark. They
were forced to take rooms at the hotel and continue their journey
come morning.

Dr Watson, clearly a favourite
Scottish son, was allocated the royal suite with the balcony and
the best view of the loch. The Countess, having no Scottish
connections, was consigned to the bedroom at the top of the tower,
optimistically referred to as the deluxe suite.

“That is the first time I have
ever slept in my dressing gown and socks and in a room with no
corners,” the Countess said first thing the next morning at
breakfast. “I went to bed cursing Horace and his childish fear but
now that I have warmed up I think it was better that we rested
before completing our journey. Graymalkin is sure to look cheerier
in the clear light of day.”

“It may work against us,”
quipped Dr Watson, humour restored after a good night’s sleep in a
large and comfortable chamber with a cheery fire, “we will be able
to see all that moss on the ceiling and the walls dripping with
damp!”

They were having a good chuckle
when they spotted two men sporting tweeds, plus fours and golf
bags, heading north towards Cruddock Castle.

“They must be the last of the
caddies,” commented the Countess, pouring some tea from a chipped
Spode pot into china cups and passing one to her companion.

“Mr MacDuff and Mr Brown,”
supplied Dr Watson.

“How do you know their
names?”

“I checked the hotel register
this morning.”

“Oh, well done!” she praised.
“So the tournament recommences today?”

“Not according to Mrs
Ardkinglas. The weather in this part of the world has been bleak.
Torrential rain has reduced huge stretches of the golf course to
one giant water hazard. Hence, the players are being allowed a few
days to practice teeing off and putting and so forth while the
fairways absorb the excess water.”

“That should suit Miss Dee. She
will have time to try out her new clubs. I hope she wins. It would
be wonderful to have a woman win.”

“It would be even more
wonderful,” he delivered dryly, “to have the best player win.”

The words Scottish and castle
in the same sentence always conjured in the Countess’s mind’s eye
an image of something proudly romantic, but Graymalkin was
not
that sort of Scottish castle. It was a byword for a
bygone time, a time of clannish feuds and warring chieftans, of
brutal Viking invasions and of bloody English insurgencies, a time
of rape and pillage and slaughter, a time when Life was the enemy
and Death was a friend.

Graymalkin was conceived in
fear, constructed between and betwixt the killings, and was somehow
still standing at the dawn of the twentieth century. It was a
forbidding fortress dramatically and inhospitably perched on a
lonely, windswept, isolated crag that jutted out of the frigid
waters of Loch Maw. It crouched behind a curtain wall of grey stone
like a deformed dwarf, squinty-eyed, crook-backed, pock-marked -
watching, waiting, hulking down, bracing for the next inevitable
onslaught from the hyperborean barbarian to sweep down from the
north and charge across the icy black water, gathering speed and
strength - an enemy that would rip out its heart and drain its
blood and grind its bones.

The fortress appeared
impenetrable until you spotted the one and only gap in the wall
that led into a cobble-stoned courtyard. Here, could be found a set
of weathered steps that hugged a windowless wall for dear life.
They led to the first floor where all the main rooms could be
found, apart from the kitchens, storerooms and domestic rooms which
were on the ground floor, and the bedrooms which were higher up.
Waiting to greet them at the top of the steps was Mrs Ross. She
looked the spitting image of Mrs Ardkinglas, with her dark hair,
piercing eyes, and stern features, right down to the blowsy and
austere, black widows-weeds. They could have been identical twins -
and indeed they were.

The fortress had not been
electrified and its reliance on candlelight and wood fires recalled
darker times. There were bare stone walls up to nine feet thick in
some places, numerous corkscrew stairs punctuated with archways
draped with heavy curtains linking different levels and rooms,
designed to confound any invader who managed to make it thus far.
There were also oak floors, blackened beams, stone lintels,
plasterwork ceilings and leaded windows set in niches. The sitting
room boasted a huge fireplace with a mantelpiece carved from a
single piece of granite. Thankfully, there was not a moss-covered
ceiling to be seen and the walls were not dripping with damp.
Tartan featured in most of the furnishings and the walls were hung
with faded Mortlake tapestries and animal portraits of dogs and
deer and horses. The corridors rippled with scold’s bridles and
medieval weapons of war and antlers by the score – and it was here
that the north wind gained entry through every crack and keyhole,
and whistled like a thousand baby banshees schooling themselves for
doomsday.

Despite this, the Countess fell
in love with Graymalkin the moment she stepped over the threshold,
and Dr Watson felt a lump come to his throat – it was the house of
his boyhood dreams. They spent the day familiarizing themselves
with the layout of the castle, from the dank dungeon gouged out of
the rock right up to the head-spinning ramparts then went for a
short walk to admire the cascading waters of Fickle Beck. Before
they knew it, it was time to dress for dinner. The occasion called
for something luxe – an evening gown in black velvet and pink
satin, embroidered with floral garlands and black lace. It was the
night of the séance at Cruddock Castle.

Cruddock Castle sat
majestically on a plateau called Maw Crag. It was a gothic revival
masterpiece constructed of pink stone that glowed salubriously in
the crepuscular light of a crisp autumn evening. Dr Watson and
Countess Volodymyrovna might have been forgiven for thinking they
were gazing at it through rose-coloured spectacles as they caught
sight of it from the window of their landau. At its noble feet
unfolded a verdant paradise, Lammas moor, now a golf course dotted
with small lakes, sand bunkers and spinneys of silver birch that
stretched southward as far as the eye could see, and in the
dreamlike distance, like a
plein air
sketch by a master of
perspective, sat the hauntingly beautiful ruin of Lammas Abbey.

The dreamy vision did not end
at the front doors of Cruddock Castle either. The dream continued
inside where the entrance hall was a sea of pink and white
alabaster with a dramatic colonnade of pinkish marble leading the
eye to a spectacular staircase wide enough for a pair of giants,
punctuated with balconies and mezzanines, and at every turning,
gilded candelabras glittering pinpoints of vivacious golden
light.

The dream unfolded ethereally
as dreams do, leading one into a gothic fantasy of fan-vaulting and
flamboyant overstatement, a drawing room so richly crammed with
several hundred years of continuous acquisition the eye didn’t know
where to look and could settle on nothing for any length of time
before flitting to the next exquisite objet d’art as it does when
encountering a treasure-trove in a museum for the first time.

Dr Watson’s and Countess
Volodymyrovna’s arrival was announced with pontifical stiffness by
the Scottish butler, and it was at this moment that the dream
bubble burst.

Dr Watson clenched as
introductions were conducted. Only gradually did he unclench,
realising that tonight he would have no trouble matching names to
faces and remembering who was who. This was no colourless
collection of homogenous faces that blurred into boring
verisimilitude, but a distinctive and distinguished group of guests
amongst whom he felt honoured to be included.

First and foremost was Lola
O’Hara. The waterfall of red hair made her an absolute corker and
though she turned out to be somewhat older than her promotional
photo had led him to believe, he would always regard her as the
standout beauty of her time. Women who are endowed with voluptuous
figures do not often possess the virtuosity of their more lithe
sisters, but Lola was the exception that proved the rule. Every
move she made was a symphony of grace and style. She held out her
hand as if she expected it to be kissed, and the doctor did not
dare disappoint.

Second was his lordship, a
tall, dark and debonair man in his early fifties, with the
trademark curling moustache that was the immaculate hallmark of war
heroes, romantic poets and dashing millionaires. As a host he was
savoir faire
personified, attentive to his guests, affable
and inclusive, putting all at ease with a deftness of touch that
would have made him the envy of any man who witnessed him in
action. He balanced a cigarette in one hand and a whiskey in the
other as he steered himself and the two newcomers around the gilded
gorgeousness on display, handling introductions with aplomb.