by Anna Lord
“Found dead!” rasped Lady Moira. “By that I take it you mean murdered?”
“That does appear to be the case,” he affirmed with understatement.
“How awful!” muttered Miss Lambert, passing around some dainty crustless sandwiches.
“Murdered how?” pursued Lady Moira, choosing a slice of plain buttered bread.
“Drowned,” he replied, tossing up between anchovy and salmon before selecting one of each.
“In his bath?” the old lady asked.
“No - the old well,” intervened the Countess opting for the cress.
The old lady turned a whiter shade of pale and Miss Lambert appeared visibly stricken. They exchanged sidelong glances before turning their attention to their crustless sandwiches.
“Is there something untoward?” asked the Countess. “I mean about the fact that Mr Brown was found down the well.”
“Well, it is most unpleasant,” croaked the old lady, sounding as if she had just swallowed a mouthful of cobwebs.
“I don’t wish to appear impertinent,” pressed the Countess impertinently, “but it seems more than merely unpleasant. I couldn’t help noticing you looked askance at each other. It appears to be related to the fact the body was found down the well. Dr Watson will be making an examination of the body tomorrow and writing a report for the coroner,” she lied shamelessly, “is there something you are withholding that may be vital to the inquest?”
Miss Lambert turned bright pink and busied herself by topping up everyone’s teacup.
Lady Moira wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin and coughed to clear her throat before proceeding. “Colonel Ardkinglas, the late husband of Mrs Ardkinglas, committed suicide many years ago by throwing himself down the well. Mrs Ardkinglas had the winding mechanism dismantled and a wooden cover made for the well. The well has not been used since that day.”
“I see,” murmured the Countess solemnly.
The doctor remained silent. The two incidents were hardly related apart from the connection to the well. One was suicide and the other was murder. And the two incidents were years apart. Nevertheless, he heeded Sherlock’s maxim to follow every thread. “How long ago did this happen?”
“About ten years ago, or perhaps nine, or possibly eight. Oh, dear! One does get muddled in old age. It becomes easier to remember details from youth than from last week or last year. When was it Miss Lambert?”
“Six years ago come winter, Lady Moira.”
“There you go, not as far back as I thought. You recount the details Miss Lambert. My throat feels terribly dry and I’m sure you will recall them much better than I. Serve the Victoria sponge first, if you will.”
When a generous slice of Victoria sponge with strawberry jam and clotted cream sat in front of each person Miss Lambert commenced her monologue and she was surprisingly articulate.
“Colonel Ardkinglas was in the British Army, serving in India. The East India Company had been disbanded in 1858, as you most likely know, but British Crown interests remained numerous and they required constant protection. There were always skirmishes and uprisings led by the Sepoys, the Indians who had been trained by the British Army but were forbidden from being promoted above a certain rank. It caused a lot of animosity that just festered for years and years and often spilled over into violence.
Colonel Ardkinglas had been posted to the north-east which was generally peaceful but the sepoys suddenly attacked Fort Rajapur where he was stationed. British casualties were high and those men who survived were imprisoned in the dungeons of the old fort. It was reminiscent of the Kolkat incident where most of the prisoners died from the effects of terrible overcrowding - suffocation, starvation and dehydration. When the Colonel was released a year later he was in extremely poor health and was repatriated home.
However, prior to the attack and being imprisoned he had heard of a lucrative mercantile venture involving a large fleet of ships for the tea trade. A group of wealthy British merchants whose families had been involved in the East India Company were behind the venture and they had set up their own trading company. The Governor of Chettingar, Lord Trefoyles, the Earl of Lomond and Lord Cruddock, to name a few, were all buying a share. He convinced his family to sink all their money into the venture, which they promptly did. The first ship to set sail sank to the bottom of the Bay of Bengal on its maiden voyage. It had not been insured. There was no fleet, just the one ship. The entire venture sank with it.
There was talk in the newspapers at the time that the ship had not been seaworthy and that the venture was merely a giant swindle to convince investors to part with their money. And that did seem to be the case in the end because the money all disappeared and so did the directors of the company, all of whom had set sail for far-flung outposts a week before the maiden voyage.
When Colonel Ardkinglas returned to England and discovered he had bankrupted his family it broke him completely. He became a physical and mental wreck. His family had no sympathy and could not bear to have him around and packed him off to their old hunting lodge here in the Borders, it was like exile or banishment. They wanted all reminders of him to just go away. He tried to make the best of it by turning the run-down old lodge into a hotel, but he suffered from dizzy spells and he often had black outs. They got worse and worse, by that I mean more frequent. Then six years ago he threw himself down the well.”
The Countess finished the last morsel of her Victoria sponge. “Lady Moira, do you know if your son lost a lot of money in the venture?”
“My son did not lose any money at all. He sold his share to someone else at the last moment. I cannot say what prompted him to sell but he actually made money out of it – a substantial amount.”
“To whom did he sell his share?” asked Dr Watson.
“If I ever knew it, I cannot remember it now. I suffer from failing health which has blunted the bit of memory that old age has not. I do however remember thinking at the time it would help pay off some of his gambling debts but unfortunately it only encouraged him to gamble even more extravagantly. He went off to the gambling dens of London and came back with less than what he had before the venture. He was an only child, our only son, spoilt by his father and indulged by me, and I’m afraid I am now reaping what we sowed.”
The doctor addressed himself to his wife’s niece. “Do you recall the name of the ship that sank in the Bay of Bengal?”
Miss Lambert shook her head. “No, I must have read it in the newspapers at the time and I do remember Lord Trefoyles talking about it a good deal but I cannot recall the minor details. Perhaps Mr Hamish Ross will remember. He studied the swindle in great detail to see if his mother might recoup a portion of her lost investment but she never did.” She turned to Lady Moira and changed the topic. “Speaking of Mr Ross, I bumped into the ghillie on my way to Graymalkin this morning and he told me to let you know he is planning to dismantle a section of the abbey ruins.”
The old lady gasped apoplectically. “It is not his to dismantle!”
“He believes the section where the stone steps lead to the old bell tower is dangerous.”
“Nonsense!” snorted the old lady consumptively. “It is only dangerous if some fool tries to climb to the top – but who would be so stupid!”
The Countess caught Miss Lambert’s eye. The look was one that warned and beseeched simultaneously. Miss Lambert heeded the look, and recalled the words of Mr Ross as well – don’t get embroiled into defending his decision. She let the matter drop.
Once the doctor and the Countess were alone in their carriage they returned to the subject of the swindle.
“I don’t think it is a good idea to bring up the matter of the Bay of Bengal swindle in conversation with his lordship,” said the Countess.
“I agree. I will tackle Mr Hamish Ross instead. He may be able to shed more light on the matter, though it seems too long ago to be relevant now.”
“Grudges can fester for long periods of time. It is human nature whet
her in India or Scotland to want some sort of revenge for wrongdoing and do not forget vengeance is a dish best served cold. By the way, have you noticed how Miss Lambert’s eyes light up whenever anyone mentions the name of Hamish Ross?”
“Your simpering romanticism is showing!” he teased.
“I caught them together at the abbey ruins this morning,” she defended.
“They were both coming to Graymalkin. Nothing could be more natural than that they should bump into each other at the ruins.”
“And that’s just what they did – they bumped right into each other’s arms!”
He managed to cross-hatch a chortle with a snigger, but secretly it was one more thing to worry about. He felt duty bound to look out for his wife’s niece. “Even if you are right, she is only nineteen, and though he is about thirty I cannot see him providing for a wife just yet. Unless his lordship offers his ghillie better lodgings than a one bedroom crofter’s hut I cannot see it happening. What’s more, I cannot give my blessing – he is illegitimate.”
“How do you know he is illegitimate?”
“Someone mentioned it after the dinner party when the men retired to the billiard room. I cannot recall who said it but we were talking about the scandal in Bohemia regarding the king’s bastard son when someone said: same as Hamish Ross. Then we moved on to William the Conqueror and so on. And before you condemn me, bear in mind that Miss Lambert has no parents and I feel duty bound to act in loco parentis.”
“Perhaps your loco parentis can demonstrate leniency since he bears your namesake.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“J. H. Watson - H for Hamish – your middle name.”
“What makes you think the H stands for Hamish?” he challenged.
“Henry is the name of your brother, so that rules that out. Harold, Hubert, Herbert, Harvey, Harley or Horatio are unlikely Scottish monikers, however a derivative of the Gaelic Seamus or Saumus is highly likely, hence Hamish.”
10
First Rehearsal
Lola O’Hara had decided that the private family chapel in the north wing of Cruddock Castle would make a perfect theatre. The apse, denuded of the usual religious trappings, had been turned into a stage with masses of gold-fringed, red velvet curtains and some dazzling limelights lining the dais. A painted backdrop had been positioned in front of the stained glass window. A mezzanine to the rear of the chapel housed an organ that would provide the music. There was even space for a harpist and a drummer. A door to the left hand side of the stage led to the vestry and then into a corridor. It made a perfect entrance for the actors. There was a powder room at one end of the corridor and several large storerooms that had been converted into dressing rooms and closets for costumes, props and scenery. To the right hand side of the stage was a door that opened to a covered porch which led into a sunken garden. This made for a good exit point. From the sunken garden the actors could hurry back to the corridor for their next entrance.
“Are you feeling alright?” asked the Countess as she and Dr Watson proceeded down the aisle of the chapel. “You look white around the gills.”
“I feel a bit queasy,” he squeaked, noting the limelights. “I think I might have eaten too many anchovies,” he lied. He was annoyed about how she got the H right too, and he had not forgiven her for noticing so much the first night when he had noticed so little. Salivating, indeed!
Miss Dee, who had been chatting to his lordship by the vestry door, broke off her conversation and smiled pleasantly. If she was surprised to see the Countess uninjured her face did not betray her.
“What did you think of the view from the bell tower?” Miss Dee asked guilelessly. “Did you go right to the top of the steps?”
“Oh, yes! The view was to-die-for!” That part at least was true, and Miss Dee appeared delighted that she enjoyed it. Perhaps there was nothing sinister in the motive to send her to the top of the bell tower after all.
Miss O’Hara swept down the aisle like the Queen of Sheba on her way to meet Solomon. All conversation abruptly ceased. Those who were not on stage were expected to sit silently in the pews and watch the play unfold. No one dared disobey.
They started with the opening scene: Thunder and lightning. Enter Three Witches.
But only two witches were out on the dark and windy heath: the Countess and Miss Lambert. Mr Dee was nowhere to be seen. There was some nervous coughing but no one spoke. They watched with bated breath, picturing what would happen once Carter Dee made an appearance. The Witchfinder General would be sure to flay him mercilessly.
Scene 1: The heath.
“Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Hover through the fog and filthy air...”
Exeunt.
Scene 2: Enter King Duncan and Malcolm.
Scene 3: The Three Witches on the heath - but there were still only two.
“A drum, a drum!
Macbeth doth come.”
Suddenly Carter made an entrance, but he wasn’t playing the part of a witch. He was speaking the lines of Macbeth. Behind him, a fraction late, stumbled his trusty underling, Banquo, red in the face and just as confused as everyone else.
“So foul and fair a day I have not seen,” declared Carter-Macbeth stridently – and everyone held their collective breath.
What was going on?
At the end of the scene it was timid Miss Lambert who put into words what everyone was thinking but were too afraid to voice.
“Why is Carter Dee playing Macbeth? Where is Mr Hamish Ross?”
Miss O’Hara flew out of the directorial throne and flounced onto the stage. “I have decided that Mr Dee is best suited to playing Macbeth. Mr Ross has not learnt his lines and has no hope of learning them in time for the opening. He will help with the scenery changes and the curtain and anything that needs doing backstage.”
A chorus of incredulous murmuring broke out though no one dared question the decision to depose Mr Ross in favour of Mr Dee. No one dared remind Miss O’Hara of her stringent criticism of Mr Dee’s ability to convincingly portray a murderous war general.
“Does Mr Hamish Ross know of your decision?” dared Miss Lambert, sounding offended on his behalf.
“Of course he knows!” snapped Miss O’Hara, and it was a case of ‘pluck out mine eyes’ to anyone who dared to lift their gaze higher than the floor. “Though it is no concern of yours whether he knows it or not! It is my play!” she reminded haughtily.
“Who will play the third witch?” asked the Countess, the only person who was not totally astonished by the astonishing turnaround.
Miss O’Hara flounced across the front of the stage and how natural the treading of the boards seemed to her. She stopped and pirouetted with a flourish when she reached the curtained wing and addressed the cowering audience, projecting her voice like one giving a royal performance at the Edinburgh Playhouse or addressing the worshipful at St Paul’s – there not being much difference between the two.
“I have given that very question some not inconsiderable thought and I am glad you asked it. I cannot permit one of the female servants to go on the stage. It will give them intolerable airs and graces. And I do not wish Miss Dee to go back to playing a dual role. Ergo, I have decided that your foreign maid will play the third witch. She has a rustic face, well-suited to a night-hag, and her foreign accent will thrill the audience. It will be a coup de theatre!”
Miss O’Hara grew more and more short-tempered as the evening progressed. Everyone forgot their lines, some minor, some not so minor, but the more she berated them, the more tongue-tied and muddled they got. Most of them were so confused by the end of rehearsal they would have forgotten their own names. It was 10 o’clock before they were permitted to shuffle off to supper like naughty children who had forgotten their catechisms.
Miss Lambert, tears welling in her eyes, ran through the vestry in search of Mr Hamish Ross, and the fact she did not appear at supper later suggested she had found him and that he was licking his woun
ds in private, or possibly venting his spleen.
The Countess put on an agreeable smile and tucked her arm through Miss Dee’s as they tripped out of the chapel. Lola O’Hara had provided her with the perfect opening to broach the topic she had been most keen to discuss.
“How do you think Mr Hamish Ross will react to the extraordinary news that he has been deposed by your brother?”
“Oh, he already knows. He took it on the chin. He is not bothered.”
“Really?” She feigned shock. “When did Miss O’Hara break the news to him?”
“Just before you arrived. I overheard her telling him in his dressing room. She just made the announcement and that was that. I saw through a crack in the door as Hamish Ross simply unbuckled his sword, stood up, and went out into the garden.”
“Dr Watson expressed some concern that his wife’s niece seems a little too fond of the ghillie. Do you think that is the case?”
“Oh, without a doubt, the poor girl is hopelessly besotted.”
“I hate to gossip, but Dr Watson also confided in me that he is worried that his niece may make an unsuitable match since she has no one to look out for her best interests. Dr Watson thinks the ghillie’s parentage is doubtful. Entre nous, he may even be illegitimate.”
“Well, I am not one for gossiping either but it is quite true. Hamish Ross was born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
“And here was I thinking that my housekeeper was a widow but there you have it. There was never any Mr Ross to begin with.”
“None whatsoever.”
“I wonder who the father might be?”
The conversation was abruptly terminated. They had arrived in the dining room where supper had been laid out on a sideboard. The food had been kept warm using silver cloches, but several of the delicate sauces had congealed and were totally ruined. Everyone was present except for Miss O’Hara who had gone straight to her bedroom, complaining of a headache. Dr Watson waited until everyone was seated around the table, plates heaped with comfort food.
“I am sorry to have to announce that there has been a tragic accident this afternoon. Mr Brown was found dead this afternoon at the Marmion Hydro -”