Lady Sherlock

by Brooks Arthur Wachtel

  The Laird sullenly glowered at Mother, then finally spoke. “And you think I’ve had a hand in it?”

  “If anything happened to McGloury, what would happen to his land?”

  “Depends on his will.”

  “If he died without leaving a will?”

  “Well, I’ve heard he’s the last of his clan. It would be put up at public auction.”

  “Sold to the highest bidder?”

  He nodded.

  “And who would the highest bidder on Millport Island be?” asked Tasha.

  The Laird’s face darkened and he took the glass from her hand. “I think you know that. I’ll see you out.”

  Mother smiled, got up, but didn’t move to the door. She circled the room glancing at the artefacts.

  “You have a wonderful collection. Mostly weapons.” She moved to the blowgun and took it from the wall, peering down the barrel. “Are you good with one?”

  He took it from Mother. “It’s only a decoration.”

  “Thank you for your time. As for Captain Crocker …”

  He studied her in apprehension, but Tasha added, “He knows a woman named Eliza. He has never met Tasha.”

  They didn’t know it at the time, but Nessie was listening at the study door. She overheard her husband saying, “Thank you. Nessie has certain ‘charms’ that make an otherwise scandalous behaviour necessary for my sanity.”

  She stalked in fury to the staircase and climbed half way up, pausing to see her husband and Tasha emerge. MacGregor was still holding the blowgun as he led her to the front door. He opened the door and gave her a warning. “You’d better be careful of my boys. They haven’t forgotten yesterday.”

  “Please speak with them so they don’t have to remember today.”

  As he closed the door, MacGregor noticed Nessie descending the stairs glaring at him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Ruins

  By mid-morning, Mother was at the ruins, examining the altar stone with her lens. She was now dressed in a long coat, cinched at the waist and set-off by an Inverness cape. She wore a sensible cap, almost masculine, but with a fore and aft brim that would shield from either sun or rain. A simple, almost stark, blouse and skirt, both designed by Mother, completed the ensemble, yet somehow on her, it all looked extremely smart. Above her loomed the rocky faces and the monolith with its great crescent-moon. A flock of seagulls alighted atop the various levels of the ruins and on the hard ground near Mother. Tasha knew that murder victims just didn’t pop up out of the fog. They had to come from somewhere.

  And in that “somewhere” far below, Deirdre was gratified as, using her camera obscura, she watched Tasha’s efforts. Sebastian, arms folded in displeasure, was watching, too. He started to speak, but Deirdre cut him off. “She knows that the girl must have come from somewhere, but she can’t find any evidence to support the deduction.”

  Tasha, projected on the flat, polished tabletop, shook her head and leaned dejectedly against the ruins. Sebastian frowned in disapproval.

  If Deirdre noticed, she didn’t care. “We haven’t heard from the look-outs this morning. Signal them.”

  “With her up top? She’ll spot the messenger.”

  To Deirdre, Sebastian—in fact, sometimes everyone—could be so dense. He scowled.

  “Temper, temper,” she said soothingly.

  “Why be a bloody fool?” That he cursed in front of a lady, even one as familiar to him as Deirdre, disclosed the degree of his apprehension.

  Deirdre’s eyes flared, as all traces of tenderness vanished. Sebastian stopped. He’d gone the limit and he knew it.

  “You question your Priestess.” Her ritualistic statement was void of emotion. Deidre motioned with her hand, turning the palm upward.

  Sebastian, subdued, extended his hand, also palm up, and stepped to her. Deirdre placed her hand atop his and, expertly wielding the edge of her crescent-moon ring, sliced his skin. Sebastian did not react as blood pooled in his cupped palm. She gently anointed the red-pearl crescent in his blood, then extended her hand with the signet ring, now glistening red, toward Sebastian. He leaned forward and kissed the ring, stepped away, his lips wet with his own blood, and lowered his head as he intoned the required response:

  “I am yours—always.”

  With that surrender, she slowly, mechanically, brushed her fingers across his hand. “Send the messenger.”

  Up above, Mother was still leaning thoughtfully against the rocks. Suddenly, the seagulls near her took flight, snapping away her contemplation. She tensed with interest as she spotted something. Tasha carefully removed her fore-and- aft hat, aimed, and tossed it.

  The hat landed atop a carrier pigeon—the lone bird remaining on the ancient stones. Tasha delicately removed a rice-paper note from around the animal’s leg and read the single word it contained: “Constant?”

  “You’re a cryptic little messenger, aren’t you?” Mother said to the captive bird.

  She glanced at the weather-worn granite near the altar stone, where she had captured the pigeon, and carefully studied the network of deep cracks, running her finger along one that caught her attention. She stood and gave a slight satisfied nod, then turned her attention back to the cooing bird in her hand.

  She went to the cottage and was gratified to find a thick spool of string. Then, after getting her purse and parasol, tied a length of string to the bird’s leg and secured the opposite end to the front door latch. She tossed the pigeon into the air and, once it settled on a direction, noted the heading by using the compass in the handle of her parasol.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Mainland

  After a ferry crossing—the captain had grinned at the pigeon Tasha had carried in the wicker basket of Tom’s “borrowed” bike—Tasha was on the mainland. She bicycled to the top of a hill, well away from the city, and released the bird. Now free of the string, its flight through the treetops guided Tasha, who took off in pursuit.

  She almost lost the pigeon in a flock of other birds, but managed to keep him separate in her sights and continued the chase.

  The pigeon flew into a hole atop the tower of an old ruined church situated high on the crest of a hill. Tasha dismounted the bicycle, examining the crumbling wreckage. The grounds were overgrown and the building showed the cankerous neglect of generations, likely centuries. Gaping holes punctured the stonework, and a tree grew in the roofless nave. The former house of worship was what would now be called “redundant,” but at the time there was no official designation, merely abandonment and disrepair.

  Then Tasha saw a bright flash of light from the tower window. She hurried inside. As she opened the side chapel door, it fell from its hinges, raising a thick cloud of dust. Dust covered the scattered remains of the few broken pews, some fallen stones, and the dull remnants of stained-glass windows. But visible in the dust were footprints leading to a door behind the altar, which opened to well-worn steps that led up into the tower.

  Tasha, quietly as a cat, climbed the stairs, soon coming to a door set back in an alcove. This portal had been repaired recently, for one of the hinges was new. The door was ajar, so she used the chance to observe. From within she heard the cooing of pigeons. The far wall was covered with cages, half of them full. Her eyes glittered at this, and then she heard someone coming down the stairs.

  Mother ducked inside a corner as a stocky man in a monk’s robe, wearing neither cross nor other religious symbols, appeared. Holding Tasha’s pigeon, he walked into the aviary and closed the door. Tasha, never one to refuse an invitation, climbed past and came to another door at the very top of the stairs. She listened, but heard no sound. She peeked through a crack in the doorframe.

  Save for a telescope, the room was empty. Tasha entered—the flash she had seen must have been the sun flaring off the lens. She peered through the eyepiece, being careful not to jar the instrument.

  The telescope was trained on the harbour, and there in the firth was the Dreadnought. She ponder
ed the connection between the Dreadnought and these incidents—but there were too many missing links in this chain. Mother preferred to wait for facts before drawing conclusions.

  As Tasha left the church, she was watched by the monk, who hid behind a dusty tapestry.

  When she had peddled out of sight of the church, the monk tossed another pigeon, a message secured on its leg, into flight.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Millport Island Ferry

  Tasha, lost in thought, stood in the bow of the little steam ferryboat. The captain lashed the wheel, walked up behind her, and noted the empty wicker basket. “Lose the bird?”

  “Flew the coop.”

  The boat heaved as the swells increased in strength and icy spray inundated both of them. The captain watched the darkening sky. “There’s a braw squall blowin’ in. You’ll not find me, nor anyone with sense, on the water.”

  “I’d have thought an old salt like you could weather a few waves.”

  He gave a quick snort, “You go on thinking that.” He pointed toward the mainland. “Me, I’ll be home in a dry bed with a wet whisky. Sorry if the storm sets back your studies, lass.”

  Mother wasn’t sure what he meant by “studies,” but the strange reference sounded promising. She gestured for him to continue.

  “Are you not one of these students, then?” the captain asked as he spat tobacco over the side.

  “What is so educational about Millport Island?”

  “The ruins, of course. Every so often some Sassenach student of history comes here hoping to be the lucky one … but you’re nae student.” He sauntered back to the wheel and, as he expected, Tasha followed, intrigued.

  “Oh, I study everything. You really should have the gas turned back on in your house, Captain.”

  “How did you …?” he gasped in surprise.

  The initiative was now Tasha’s. “You first … ‘be the lucky one’?”

  “… the lucky one who finds the lost cult refuge, the one in the legend.” The old salt stopped, his eyes twinkling. Tasha waited, then the expected happened as the ferry captain scratched his head and said, “I cannae recall more, lass. My memory’s wandered.”

  Tasha had already retrieved a gold sovereign from her purse. Without changing expression, she flipped the coin to him. “Your ‘legend’ had better be more original than your approach.”

  The captain gave a crooked grin, pocketed the sovereign and began. “Aye. It’s a long tale, I might miss a few details …”

  She closed her purse and folded her arms. That settled the matter.

  “… but not too many,” the ferry captain admitted in defeat. “A thousand years back, all the land around the firth was the stronghold of a pagan cult. Legend says they had a name—but all I know is ‘Olc’!”

  Tasha raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  “It means wicked. Now, maybe they had other names; ask the islanders. But I do know this: Their priestess ruled with an iron hand, and if she marked a man for death, that was the finish of him. The poor wretch might try to flee … hide …” The captain mournfully shook his head. “There is no night so black, no chamber so concealed to hide a mortal from the powers of the dark priestess. The light of dawn would find her prey, his face a hideous death grin, his skin as tight and rigid as oak. And then …”

  Tasha perked up, intensely interested. The captain stopped his story. “Aye, the rest eludes me.”

  She reached into her purse and out came another coin. She held it out of reach with the warning, “Remember, they hang pirates.”

  He beamed and tapped his head. “The fog’s clearin’. Well, it went on like that until the Christians, bless ’em, came. The cult fought like the very devil, but they couldnae win. They fled to a secret refuge on Millport Island and no one could find them. Not until … oh … ah …”

  Tasha, started to replace the coin in her purse.

  The captain hurriedly added, “… until one of their own betrayed the cult for gold. They were slaughtered to the last believer and their priestess was burned at the stake as a witch. Before she died, she cursed all Christians and vowed revenge. Revenge on the island clan that betrayed her. Revenge on the entire Christian world that destroyed her. Revenge to the very end of forever.”

  “And the location of this secret refuge?”

  “Lost.” He shook his head. “Time, lass, it buries everything.”

  Tasha handed “Jolly Jack Tar” the coin. “Does it? Revenge to the end of forever …” She leaned on the rail, absorbed, fingers and palms in a thoughtful pyramid.

  Chapter Nineteen

  London, The Admiralty

  At the same time Mother was questioning the ferry captain, there was a meeting in the Admiralty’s venerable boardroom. In this room, the Royal Navy had directed its fight against Napoleon, had seen England’s wooden walls replaced with steel and steam. Today, there was plenty of gold braid sitting around the conference table, as well as lesser beings, like Commander Bernard, and several civilians in dark frockcoats and wing-collars, among them Ramsgate and Mycroft Holmes.

  Mycroft was staring at the front page of the London Times. Its headline: “Berlin denies the Dreadnought charges. Debate in Commons.”

  Ramsgate was concluding, “… the missing plans have not yet reached Germany. Our sources are certain on that point.”

  “We know where the plans aren’t, Commissioner,” said Mycroft testily as he softly put down the newspaper.

  “I assure you, Mr. Holmes, every available man …”

  “Available man?” interrupted Mycroft. “Every man! Forget your petty problems of the police court. There can be no further incidents involving the Dreadnought, gentlemen, or all Europe will have war!”

  His words hung heavily in the air. Mycroft Holmes was not a man given to hyperbole.

  Chapter Twenty

  Millport Village

  Tasha leaned against the counter of the telegraph office, which was merely a piece of plank at the back of a small general goods store/post office, and filled out a telegraph form:

  “Ramsgate, having wonderful time, scenery fascinating. Especially view of your boat. There are other interested parties here. Will keep you informed. Tasha.”

  She gave the form to an old woman behind the counter who was knitting a shawl that seemed to extend yards behind her. “You’ve been at that a long time,” commented Tasha cheerily.

  “Aye,” came the curt reply.

  “I don’t imagine that a place like Millport keeps the wires very busy.”

  “We have no wires. We use a semaphore,” she said, not looking up from her knitting.

  “What do you do during fog?” asked Tasha, intrigued.

  The old woman lowered her knitting and took the form. “We wait till it lifts.” She read over the message and vanished into a back room. Tasha flipped a coin to the counter and reached for another, only to discover to her chagrin that the cupboard was bare. The “pirate” captain had ravaged her coin purse better than she knew.

  As Mother left the “telegraph office,” she noticed Alec and Sean watching from across the street. They tried not to be conspicuous.

  Tasha walked down the cobblestoned street, aware of them, when she heard a gunshot. With feline quickness, she flattened herself against the corner of a building. No one else on the street, including Alec and Sean, seemed aware of the shot; from the baker taking a basket of bread to the pub to the two fishwives gossiping in front of the green-grocer, it was business as usual on High Street.

  Comprehension dawned upon Tasha as her vigilance travelled to the telegraph office. In the sky was a signal flare, fired by the old woman, now on the roof, holding a smoking flare-gun. The flare burned brightly for the sky was dark with storm clouds. The old woman peered through a telescope to the opposite shore. She must have seen an answering signal of some kind, for she grasped the control wheels of a strange apparatus. It was a pole that extended twenty feet into the sky. There was an eight-foot arm at the top and an
other identical one about half way down the main shaft. Both of the arms were connected to the main shaft with pivots. The device, a Popham semaphore, was archaic even then. The old woman deftly worked the control wheels. The semaphore arms twirled rapidly as they sent Tasha’s message. Mother watched in fascination for half a minute, and then continued down the street.

  She noted out of the corner of her eye that Alec (the bigger man) had moved to follow her, but after a few steps his smaller companion held him back. What she didn’t hear was Sean telling Alec, “We know where to find the little Sassenach when we want her.”

  Tasha walked on. Suddenly she stopped, for right in the middle of the street was a huge oak tree. There were benches around it, and carved on the trunk, facing her, was another of the brutal faces. This one was better preserved than the one she had seen earlier in the forest. On a low brick ledge around the base of the tree was a brass faceplate with the inscription: “Ceremonial Tree—Preserved through the Millport Island Historical Society.”

  A shadow loomed over the faceplate; it was the old woman from the telegraph office. “You could not have a reply already,” stated Mother.

  “No. A message. MacMurdo the poacher wants to see you.”

  “Do you know where I can …”

  “The pub. He’s in the Spotted Dog.”

  That was true, for it was in the Spotted Dog that Mother spotted MacMurdo at a table in the corner. He raised his glass to her. Also in the pub were Sean and Alec. They stopped playing darts and nodded gleefully to each other as Tasha walked in.

  The men in the place fell silent and glared at her for invading their masculine sanctuary. She gave the assembly her most charming smile. Mother rather enjoyed her assaults on what today we’d call chauvinism, or outright discrimination, and trod through the pub as if she owned it. She was striding toward MacMurdo in the back of the room, when a dart flew past her face and embedded itself in the wall. Alec, another dart in hand, grinned at Tasha with the kind of nasty smirk best to stay friendly with. Tasha mischievously wagged her finger and reached to remove the dart from the wall when another landed less than an inch from her fingers. The men in the pub laughed.