Lady Sherlock

by Brooks Arthur Wachtel

  Speeding by were neatly laid out farms, with orderly stone walls set amid a landscape of fertile green. It appeared so safe and serene.

  “’Tis a wee garden compared to Scotland,” continued McGloury, as he rhapsodized about his native land. “And green, you dinnae know green ’til you stand on the banks of Loch Lomand with the highlands beckoning in the mist.” Then he gave a sigh and admitted, “But I must admit that, aye, these English farms have a simple charm.”

  “They do indeed, Mr. McGloury.”

  He gave a short laugh. “Now, you’re not saying that a fine lady like yourself would bide awhile tramping the fields or clambering over cattle fences?”

  “It might surprise you to know that I spent a summer’s week on a farm just two stops up this very line.”

  “Were you on holiday, then? Pretending to be a country mouse?” he asked with a laugh.

  Mother sighed with pleasure as the memory came back to her. “It was invigorating. The corpse of the owner’s father-in-law was strewn about six different points of the stable. Just finding all the pieces presented a challenge. Still, I was able to clear the poor farmer. Though I am certain there are nights when he wishes his wife was at his side, rather than in Pentonville prison, despite her facility with an axe.”

  McGloury gaped at Mother for a moment, and then asked her to hand him the newspaper sitting on the edge of the seat. He made a point of being immersed in an article, his desire for conversation suddenly satiated.

  “I think I’ll indulge in a nap,” said Tasha. “You don’t mind, I trust?”

  “Not a wee bit!” he replied.

  Mother closed her eyes. They had a long trip ahead.

  Although Glasgow was a modern city, and the Clydebank was one of the great ship building centres of the world, the only transportation to Millport Island was a single little ferry, scarcely more than a lifeboat with a steam engine, that left from the mainland town of Largs. Eventually, it would retire to the Glasgow Transport Museum, but in 1906 it still plied endlessly between Millport Island and the mainland.

  The boat lurched in a heavy swell and spray inundated Tasha and McGloury, the only two passengers (save for a cow mooing in discomfort toward the bow). The ferry captain, a type referred to at the time as a “grizzled old salt” or when being affectionate, “Jolly Jack Tar,” took a tarp from a chest in the stern, strode past his human fares and covered the cow.

  Tasha raised her voice, overcoming the engine and the water. “Is this the only transportation to the island?”

  McGloury nodded stoically, and they both huddled from the spray.

  Tasha contemplated the dark water below with satisfaction. She loved swimming, and not just because of the exercise, but for the way that water—even when near frigid—engulfed her and simultaneously buoyed her up. She shifted her attention toward the bow of the boat.

  Ahead was Millport Island, with its little town and crofts scarcely touched by modernity. Earlier that day she had seen, as if in contrast, the towering hull of the new Cunard liner, Lusitania, at the John Brown & Company shipyard on the Clydebank. The ship was almost ready for launching. She would be the most modern and fastest ocean liner yet built. It was indicative of the turbulent era that the government had helped finance the Lusitania, and her sister ship the Mauretania, on the condition that in time of war, they could be used as auxiliary cruisers. Even in peacetime, the public would get something for the expenditure of money, for these swift ships were expected to keep the Blue Riband, the accolade for the fastest Atlantic crossing, firmly a British possession (there would be no physical trophy until 1935). Tasha mused that while she would spend the night only a few miles from this triumph of advanced technology, her abode would have no electricity, gas, or plumbing.

  Chapter Eleven

  The McGloury Croft

  Tasha and McGloury rode a gig, a one horse, two-wheeled cart, up a slight incline on a very bumpy dirt road. McGloury halted the horse and pointed below them. “There it is, lass. My bonny wee croft.”

  To a Scot, almost everything was “wee.” I once heard a Scot call the gigantic ocean liner Queen Mary a “wee boat.” However, McGloury was being more accurate than colourful. There was a thatched roof cottage near a sheep pen clustered close to a cliff with a mean drop to the water below.

  By day, the place was more picturesque than sinister, but there was something else. About fifty yards from the cottage, adding a bizarre touch, were a group of ancient pagan ruins.

  They were tall, rectangular dolmens, arranged in a semi-circle around an altar, crudely carved with agonized and brutal human faces, an eerie blend of Stonehenge and Easter Island.

  Tasha was pleased at this eldritch stage upon which she found herself a major player. “Lovely, Mr. McGloury. A worthy setting.”

  In front of the croft, near the sheep pen, a thickset man with stiff bearing sat astride a horse. The rider was arguing with a young man in working clothes and a long wool vest, who gestured wildly. Standing beside the horse and its expensively attired rider, were two burly field hands. On a signal from the mounted man, one grabbed the young man and moved him away from the sheep pen’s gate. The other of the big men held a sheep on a rope leash.

  McGloury scowled, “There’s trouble! That’s Laird MacGregor! And they’re accosting my ghillie Tom!” Tasha knew that a ghillie was Scots for a croft’s hired hand, and that Laird MacGregor would be called Lord MacGregor south of Hadrian’s Wall.

  She held on as McGloury flicked the reins, sending the cart gamboling toward the croft. He pulled to an abrupt stop, jumped out, and ran toward the Laird. Tasha stayed behind in the cart, observing.

  The Laird pointed his riding crop at McGloury, “You’ve been caught clear and fair, McGloury! Alec! Show him! Sean, let the lad loose!”

  As the Laird turned his face, Mother got a good look at him. Tasha was not an easy mortal to surprise, but this revelation caught her genuinely unawares. It was none other than “Captain Crocker” from the Inn of Illusions. The same man who had leapt out the window of the Cunard Room when interrupted by Ramsgate. The Laird—and Mother would have to cease thinking of him as the imaginary “Captain Crocker”—hadn’t spotted Tasha, as he was signaling his men. Sean let Tom loose and Alec brought forward the sheep. Tom, the ghillie, rushed to McGloury.

  “He wants to look o’wer the flock. I dinnae let him.”

  “Good lad,” said McGloury, still glaring at the Laird.

  The Laird merely cocked his head toward the sheep, “Look at your mark, McGloury—go on, man. Use your eyes!”

  McGloury inspected the dye mark, the “brand” on the sheep. It was blue, but tinted red unevenly around the edges.

  “Do you see the red, now?” demanded the Laird.

  “Aye! There’s nothing wrong with my vision!”

  “And do you recall that my mark is red?”

  Tasha just watched, enjoying the confrontation. McGloury shoved the sheep away and spun to the Laird, towering above him on his horse. “Listen to me, Laird MacGregor. You may own the best land on Millport, but you dinnae own this croft, you dinnae own me sheep and you dinnae own me! So a good day to you!”

  “You deny that this sheep is mine?”

  “Man, I deny nothing! But it’s travelling overfast to accuse me of thievery!”

  “Half the flock in that pen have, or had, my mark! Alec! Sean!” At his signal they moved toward the sheep pen. McGloury and Tom tried to block them but the struggle was brief as the bigger men tossed them aside. While they did that, Tasha walked to the pen’s gate, leaned against it and folded her arms, strategically lowering her head so that her wide hat hid her face. Alec and Sean approached her, but not wanting to assault a lady, gestured to their Laird for guidance.

  Laird MacGregor, not recognizing Mother with her face hidden, tried to be civil. He asked her to step away from the gate. With her pugnacious visage masked by her hat, she shook her head. MacGregor altered from polite to persuasive, as he barked to the larger of t
he two men. “Alec, move her! Be gentle … if you can!”

  Alec nodded and grasped Tasha’s arm. She spun and smashed him into the fence. He stumbled to his feet in amazement. “I slipped! You aw’ saw that!”

  “Of course you did,” offered Mother as she grabbed him and flipped him into the sheep pen. Sean, the smaller of the Laird’s men, moved forward carefully. Tasha crossed her arms and grinned challengingly at him. He came close and, with hesitation, stretched out his arms to lunge at her. Mother directly eyed MacGregor, smiled and said, “Captain Crocker, I presume.”

  Laird MacGregor could barely get out the word “Stop!” rapidly enough.

  Sean, arms still poised to grapple, stood fast as MacGregor reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a pair of glasses, bent closer and stared at Tasha. “Eliz—” He cut himself short.

  Mother cocked her head. “Stroke.”

  MacGregor wheeled his horse around and shouted to his men. “Come away, lads. There’s work to attend to.”

  Tasha leaned back against the fence as Alec climbed out of the sheep pen and strode wrathfully over to her. “You havenae heard the end of this.”

  MacGregor cut him short, ordering him back to the manor. Alec gave Mother a final glare and stalked to the Laird. MacGregor cocked his head to get going, and his two men headed down the road.

  MacGregor paused and leaned closer to Tasha. “You don’t think you could have mistaken me for someone else?

  “A mistake is always possible.”

  “Very possible.” He responded with a threat in his voice as he moved toward the road, passing McGloury. “I can’t stop you living here, but stay away from my flock.”

  Tasha walked closer, “If you have a problem, there’s always the police.”

  MacGregor laughed at that and galloped off, soon over-taking his men.

  McGloury, with an air of satisfaction, shouted to Mother’s enjoyment, “And dinnae come back! Tom, fetch the lady’s things.”

  Tom got Mother’s bag from the cart and hefted it to the cottage. Tasha inspected the surroundings one more time. “I take it Laird MacGregor wants your croft and you declined to sell it.”

  “Aye.”

  “It’s curious that you are losing sheep and he thinks you are stealing his.”

  “There’s not much grazing, flocks get mixed … but you and Laird MacGregor seem to know each other.”

  Tasha merely shrugged. “We might have crossed paths on holiday.”

  McGloury snorted. “Aye. With a wife like his, I’ve no doubt he needed one.” He held open the door as they entered the cottage.

  That night, against the sunset, the tall crumbling stones seemed even more abnormal. Tasha ran her finger over the craggy lips of one of the granite faces. Something caught her eye. There was a crescent-moon carved into one of the monoliths.

  “We’ve met before … somewhere …” mused Tasha.

  All around her, a thick fog started to roll in from the firth. Within the hour, one could barely make out the feeble light of the cottage from the ruins.

  The cottage was a sparse, two-room affair with a stone fireplace, big iron swing kettle and up-to-date furniture. It was quite comfortable. They had finished their supper of penny potatoes and haggis. Tasha and McGloury sat—at Tasha’s insistence—in the most uncomfortable chairs McGloury owned. Her strategy was only partially successful, for although Mother was awake and alert, McGloury was snoozing.

  Then Boab, McGloury’s collie (of the teeth-marks-on-the-walking-stick fame) stirred, aware of something, and started to whine. Tasha turned down the lamp as Boab barked more intently and clawed at the door.

  Outside, something was agitating the sheep. They shifted back and forth in the pen, pushing against the wooden fence.

  Tasha, her eyes gleaming, and McGloury, awakened by Boab’s barking, both rushed to the window. They saw that somehow the sheep pen gate was open—but the flock wasn’t stampeding. A few sheep near the gate wandered out, but most of the flock stayed in the pen.

  McGloury, fearing for his livelihood, raced out the door, with Tasha directly following. Tasha ordered him back to the cottage, but he refused and dashed to the pen, slamming the gate shut, while Mother chased the few of the flock that had escaped. She had valuable assistance from Boab. The collie knew his business and ran and barked, herding the sheep.

  “Look out for the cliff!” shouted McGloury as Mother ran in that direction. The warning would have been better intended for the sheep, for a few of them tumbled over the cliff to the invisible sea below. Tasha lunged for one lamb about to fall over the edge. She pulled it by the leg and dragged it to safety, then carried the bleating animal back to the pen. With Boab now quietly at his side, McGloury accounted for his sheep. Tasha let the lamb into the pen as McGloury closed the gate.

  The night was suddenly deathly quiet. Tasha studied the ruins—no more than a dark vagueness in the fog.

  “I cannot protect you if you disobey me!” said Mother sternly. McGloury gave her a contrite nod, and Tasha, McGloury, and Boab walked back toward the cottage when a new sound drifted across through the fog: a mournful wailing, feminine, eerie, and sad, coming from the ruins. Standing amid the stones, and hardly distinguishable in the mist, was the lone figure of a shrouded woman, seen and vanishing at the whim of the fog. The spectre’s skull-like face was barely visible, and her haunting wail beckoned.

  Tasha was not easily convinced of apparitions. “That’s a lot of wind for a ghost.” She moved toward the ruins, but McGloury, terrified, grasped her arm. Tasha broke free. At that moment, the wailing ceased and there was only silence.

  The ruins were empty.

  Tasha scowled at McGloury for interfering with her, but as he was so shaken, she softened and said quietly, “You’d better go inside.”

  He nodded, and they walked to the door, but Boab barked at something toward the ruins. Tasha stared into the mist and listened intently. An indistinct figure ran from the tall dolmens. Boab barked and growled. McGloury, sensing danger, grabbed the dog’s collar to hold him.

  The figure suddenly screamed a woman’s scream and staggered. Tasha heard a muffled, hoarse cry that seemed to say “Deirdre!” Then the figure screamed in pain, lurched to the cliff and, shrieking, flung herself over the edge.

  Boab broke free of McGloury and dashed into the fog. Tasha cautiously moved to the cliff and gazed over the edge, noting how it disappeared into the mist below. The crashing of the surf was markedly audible. McGloury came up behind her. “Who is Deirdre?” asked Tasha.

  “I dinnae ken.”

  Mother nodded and they walked back toward the light of the cottage. McGloury called for Boab, but was answered only with silence. He called again. “Now where is that dog?” They both searched the fog for him. “It’s not like him to not come,” worried McGloury.

  Tasha’s eyes fell upon the ruins, grim and silent in the swirling mist. She realised how exposed they were out in the open. “Look for him in the morning,” she advised.

  Her sense of danger was communicated and McGloury did not argue.

  As they walked back to the cottage, they were being watched from a tiny hole atop one of the dolmens, high above unaided reach. The hole, through a series of tiny tunnels and mirrors, sent a shaft of light deep underground.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Caverns, Deirdre’s Chamber

  The image of McGloury’s cottage, with Tasha and McGloury entering, was projected on a round, polished stone by a camera obscura. The device, carved at the arched top of the chamber, was another hideous face, but this one was different than the tortured faces on the dolmens above. Hewn from the granite was a horned demon with a mouth of sharpened teeth distorted into an exaggerated death-smile. One of its eyes was a glittering red crystal, while the other eye projected the image in a beam of white light. The ragged ceiling that arched to this massive central face was filled with other carved visages. These did resemble the tormented sculptures with their silent screams from above, but t
hey were turned away from the demon face as if too terrified to contemplate it. Though this terrible place no longer haunts me, it is still vividly engraved upon my mind.

  The chamber was small and dimly lit by oil lamps, and the furnishings were simple save for an ornate four-poster bed and an elaborate harp. Deirdre, her face mask-like and inscrutable, watched as on the polished stone was projected the image of Tasha and McGloury entering the cottage and closing the door. Deirdre was still dressed in the banshee “shrouds” that Tasha had seen indistinctly in the ruins. The priestess pulled a lever, the light was blocked from above, and the image went dark.

  “Lady Dorrington will be a brilliant opponent; you’ll be earning every quid.” She was speaking to a man, sitting in the shadows cleaning a large revolver. A table was covered with charts, maps, a decanter, crystal glasses, and a mortar and pestle. “Are you prepared?” she asked.

  The silhouette answered by snapping the revolver shut.

  “Then enjoy,” said Deirdre brightly.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The McGloury Croft

  Tasha, dressed for the outdoors, but allowing herself the greater protection that a larger pancake hat provided from the sun than her usual fore-and-aft, was at the cliff, examining the ground with her Art Nouveau lens. McGloury, a bowl of porridge in hand (do the Scots ever eat anything else for breakfast?), was between her and the ruins, calling for Boab. The flock bleated noisily in the pen. Behind them, the dark water was speckled with white caps and topped by a grey sky.

  Tasha, finding footprints and broken shrubs, located the spot where the girl had gone over the edge. Below, water crashed against jagged rocks. With the tides and currents, Mother knew better than to waste time looking for a body in that black water. McGloury, in mounting frustration and growing concern, continued to call for his collie.