Lady Sherlock

by Brooks Arthur Wachtel

  Alec, still grinning, shouted at her, “Do you play, lass?”

  “No,” said Mother in a pleasant and agreeable tone, “but it doesn’t look difficult.” She pulled both darts from the wall, spun and threw them in the same liquid movement.

  Alec ducked and when he raised his head it was bare. His ghillie hat was affixed to the dartboard behind him, secured directly to the bulls-eye by one dart, while the second missile was stuck squarely in the tail of the first.

  Tasha gave a playful grin. “Think what I could do with practice.” This sobering thought allowed her to stride past the troublemakers. She stopped, took the pint of beer from Alec’s hand, drained it in one swig, and returned the empty glass.

  A few men laughed, liking her nerve, but the prevailing attitude was hostile and—with glares from the others—silence was soon restored. By that time, Tasha was at MacMurdo’s table. She caught the eye of the Publican. “Whisky. A hauf! I always prefer the local product.”

  She then turned her attention to MacMurdo and asked, “Has my little ferret turned up something important?”

  “Aye. Very!”

  She motioned him to continue. He noted his dry throat.

  Mother replied in mock-sympathy. “Would a glass of scotch whisky help to lubricate your tonsils?”

  He gave a toothy grin. Mother continued, “The faster you speak, the sooner you’ll have it.” His grin foundered.

  “I dinnae like your attitude, lass, not one bit. And after I’ve decided to trust you.”

  “It’s more pleasant than prison.”

  MacMurdo was palpably in his cups and rose unsteadily to his feet. “Ye got no respect, woman!”

  She took his hand in hers and gave a little squeeze. He instantly sat down and she let go. “I would have thought a poacher would be wiser in the art of discretion. You have picked a singularly public spot for our private conversation. The Spotted Dog has keen ears.”

  MacMurdo shifted his bleary vision around the room. There were many eyes on them, including Alec and Sean.

  Tasha tilted her head toward the door. “Let’s talk outside. The natives are restless.”

  Alec, with an effort, freed his hat from the dartboard, and with Sean, followed the Publican as he brought Tasha her whisky. They flanked either side of her as Tasha, cagily, started to stand. Alec put his big hands on her shoulders and, with more effort than he expected, forced her down.

  “If you prefer the men’s section, Sassenach, then bide awhile.” He gave a quick, and entirely humourless, laugh.

  MacMurdo grinned. “You’ve a gift for makin’ friends, lass.”

  Alec glared at MacMurdo. “When we’ve finished with this little strumpet, MacMurdo …” MacMurdo sunk back in his chair, discernibly frightened.

  Tasha shook her head patiently.

  “Sneering city lass,” joined in Sean. “The woman and children’s room wasn’t grand enough for her likes. She has to peep and pry on the men.”

  Tasha was about to comment when she spotted a crescent-moon tattoo on Alec’s wrist. Sean and Alec exchanged worried looks. Sean pulled Tasha to her feet, “We’ll take you there, lass.”

  Tasha shook free and straightened her clothes, “Ah, an escort, how very …” Her elbow lanced into Sean’s stomach, as he doubled over, her fist connected with his jaw. He flew back, smashing his head against the bar, and stayed put, lights out, on the floor. Tasha, having barely moved, continued to adjust her clothes, “… chivalrous.”

  Everyone in the pub was stunned. Alec attacked. As he threw a blow, Tasha picked up her glass of whisky and dodged his every effort without spilling a drop. Then she tossed the drink in Alec’s face.

  “Have one on me.” She just could not resist. Her fist smashed into Alec’s jaw. He crashed through a table, hurtled to the floor, and slowly staggered back to his feet. He looked bleary-eyed at Tasha.

  Mother swiftly moved to MacMurdo and asked him, “Quickly! What did you want to tell me?”

  “I know who’s been stealing the Laird’s sheep. It’s Leprechauns!”

  “Leprechauns! In modern Scotland?”

  Before MacMurdo could say more, he motioned for Tasha to glance behind. Alec, in a fury, lunged toward her.

  Mother assumed the classic Marquis of Queensbury pugilistic stance and thumbed the side of her nose.

  At the front door, Ian and Blake entered. “I’ll stop the fight, sir,” said Blake.

  “What fight?” answered Ian, holding him back.

  Alec threw punch after punch, but Tasha, hands on hips, dodged every one of them while giving her opponent useful pugilistic tips. “You really must work on speed. And remember … always … keep … aware … of your opponent!” Her foot connected squarely with Alec’s jaw. He sailed into a group of onlookers, who broke his fall. He stood—showing either admirable stamina or a streak of masochism—smashed a bottle on the bar and brandished it. “I’ll fix your face for you!” he growled. Even to this day, when a Scot offers to fix your face for you, be assured he is not a doctor offering free plastic surgery.

  At this point, the very reluctant Ian pointed Blake toward the fight and barked, “Oh, go on!”

  With all interest on Tasha no one saw Sean, now back on his feet, take a knife from his coat and inflict a slight nick on MacMurdo’s wrist. MacMurdo didn’t seem to feel it.

  Blake moved in, but he wasn’t needed. Tasha dodged Alec’s lunge, planted her elbow in his passing back, and decked him. He dropped the shattered bottle, then smashed into Sean, who was racing toward Tasha from MacMurdo’s table. She turned around and plucked a drink from the hands of an on-looker.

  Mother turned back, raised her glass in bravado, and toasted the defeated men. “The best laid schemes o’ mice and men gang aft agley.”

  Mother had recited Robert Burns original version of the famous phrase and many of the men, despite Tasha being a “Sassenach,” appreciated the authentic quote. They also fairly applauded her skill and victory. Mother gave a grateful nod. She was fond of Scots. Despite Harry Lauder’s popular music-hall presentation depicting them as flint-eyed and tight-fisted, she found most Scots to be a warm and generous people.

  Alec picked himself off the floor and staggered to the bar, clutching it for support. Sean started to get up and reached for his knife when he spotted a streak of blood on his hand. He picked up the knife; there was a thin smear of his blood on the blade. Sean realised that he must have cut himself in the fall and was horrified.

  Tasha sensed something was wrong and offered her hand in assistance. Sean reached for it, started to choke, dropped his hand, and collapsed to the floor. He was quite dead.

  Mother took a step toward him when a hand grasped her arm. On reflex, she pivoted and punched her assailant. It was Ian, who she sent sprawling, unconscious, to the ground. Tasha spotted her error. “I’ve been rude.” She poured a whisky, bent down and gently slapped Ian’s face.

  Alec used the distraction to slip away unnoticed.

  Ian’s eyes dragged open and Tasha tenderly put the drink to his lips. He shoved it away and fingered his throbbing jaw. Tasha, ignoring his silent protest, helped him up. “I do so apologize.”

  “Is this women’s emancipation?” He spotted Sean on the floor, “Always havin’ men at your feet?”

  “I thought you were attacking me.”

  “I ain’t that reckless.”

  She chuckled at that. He softened a bit and the ice between them began to thaw. “We may smoke a peace-pipe yet, Sheriff,” noted Tasha (secretly delighted at the thought and not just for professional reasons).

  “Inspector,” he corrected her—but there was a glint of humour in his voice.

  Tasha knelt down to Sean. “Have you ever been tattooed, Inspector?” She pointed to the crescent-moon on Sean’s wrist.

  Ian was confused. He noted Sean’s very slight wound. “But that’s just a scratch.”

  “Poisoned—like our little blonde beauty.”

  Out came Ian’s official noteb
ook—and official attitude. “I’ll need statements from you and the other tin-horn you were tusslin’ with.” He scanned the room for Alec. “Blake, find where he skedaddled off to, and then send for the sawbones.”

  Blake nodded and left. Tasha pointed to Sean. “I think this fellow’s beyond help.”

  “You’re the one partial to autopsies, ain’t you, ma’am?”

  Mother appreciated his concession. “Tasha will do. We already know one thing about his death …” She turned over the body, revealing Sean’s face. He was grinning from ear-to-ear. “He died happy.” She gestured toward MacMurdo and added, “He was not alone.”

  MacMurdo sat rigidly in his seat, staring at them with the same distorted grin.

  “He was about to give me information. This was deliberate. I suspect there was more to this brawl than a clash of personalities. I think it’s time for a little pow-wow.”

  Later in the day, much to the chagrin of both the Publican and his clientele, Ian emptied the pub. Sean and MacMurdo’s bodies, now on tables, were covered with horse-blankets. Constable Blake had returned, unable to find the doctor, who was attending a patient on another part of the island. The constable had left word that the physician was needed at the pub and returned to the Spotted Dog to report. Blake now sat in a corner, watching Ian refer to his notes while deeply in conversation with Tasha.

  “You over-think things.” Ian tapped his notebook with his finger. “I got one creed that hits pay-dirt every time. I always track down a motive, and we both know where that trail leads. There’s only one varmint who wants McGloury’s land.”

  “Laird MacGregor?” said Mother doubtfully.

  “You have objections?”

  “One or two. Why would he kill McGloury’s brother after he had agreed to sell him the croft?”

  “We’ve only his word on that.”

  Tasha shook her head, “It’s too easily checked for it to be a fabrication.”

  Ian put down his notebook, filled a glass from a bottle of (non-alcoholic) Iron Brew on the table, and said evenly, “As far as I can see, there’s no one else with a motive.”

  “You must extend your horizon, Inspector. There is someone else. With time I will prove it.”

  “Maybe … but what I say goes.” Ian motioned to the constable in the corner. “Blake, stay here and wait for the doctor!” He pointed to the two dead bodies. “I want to know what killed those men.” Ian shifted his extended finger to Mother. “Meanwhile, we’re going to pay Laird MacGregor a visit!”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The Caverns, Deirdre’s Chamber

  The chamber was filled with the sound of the old ballad “Barbara Allen” being flawlessly played on a harp. Von Traeger, in fencer’s regalia, dueled with another man, also in protective gear—though “dueling” might be an overstatement. The German gained easy ground, forcing his opponent to the wall and then disarmed him with a deft lunge. Another flick of the wrist and the straps of the cornered man’s protective mask were severed. It fell away revealing a terrified Alec. Von Traeger, enjoying himself, toyed with his victim, slashing Alec’s arms and laughing at the man’s panic. The wounds were deliberately superficial, but Alec whimpered, watching the red stains spread on his white sleeves. He tried to fight down his growing dread.

  Von Traeger was pleased as he lectured, “In Heidelberg, we fight mensur style. The target is the head.” And his cheek bore the dueling scar that was a mark of pride with the Prussian aristocracy.

  “My men use their heads occasionally,” interrupted Deirdre, who wore her priestess robes while playing her ornate harp. She stopped; her nimble fingers left the strings. Her remorseful voice was almost motherly. “But not you, Alec. You and Sean were sent to observe Lady Dorrington. Not only did you disobey me by attacking her, but you let her win.”

  Von Traeger snapped the point of his blade under Alec’s chin, not breaking the skin, but forcing Alec to his toes. Alec gaped pleadingly at Deirdre.

  Her fingers floated across the strings, producing an eerie dissonance. “You and Sean have nearly upset a delicately balanced equation.” Deirdre plucked the harp. The sound was dark and angry. “Lady Dorrington must have her clues in the proper sequence.” Her voice became vehement. “I’m leading our little detective to the greatest crime in history. Holding it in front of her eyes, and yet she can’t see it.” Deirdre suddenly stopped.

  Alec and Von Traeger were amazed at her intensity. The blade dropped from Alec’s chin. He breathed hard in relief. “MacMurdo the poacher was about to talk. We stopped him.”

  Deirdre’s fires died as rapidly as they flared. She returned to her harp and continued matter-of-factly. “He would have said nothing she doesn’t already suspect, but cannot prove.” She plucked the cords and said sadly, “I can’t risk unpredictable elements, Alec.”

  Alec was terrified, but not stupid, and he knew what that meant. He bolted past Von Traeger and threw himself at Deirdre’s feet, grasping the hem of her robe. “Please, Priestess—forgive me. This Sassenach woman—she’s destroying you … and we need you so … we …” He ceased talking and offered his palm for the blood supplication.

  “Not that way, Alec,” she said softly, as she helped him to his feet and embraced him.

  “Priestess, please.” Alec desperately pleaded for forgiveness. Her embrace suddenly tightened and her fingernails dug deeply into his neck. He tensed, looked at her in anguish, and then quivered in her arms. She loosened her caress and he reached for the wounds, feeling the wet blood. His eyes darted from his stained fingers to his priestess. Deirdre gave him a kiss on the forehead. “You have violated one of our most ancient and unviable rules: I alone decide the Smiling Death.” He slid down her body to the floor.

  “Yes, Alec. Forgiven,” she took a towel from the table and wiped the lethal poison from her nails.

  Von Traeger angrily marched over, “Even a dummer mensch deserves a decent death!”

  “He looks contented enough.”

  Alec’s corpse grinned with the cult’s gruesome trademark. Deirdre sat back at the harp and resumed “Barbara Allen,” singing with the voice of an angel. She was capable of much beauty.

  Von Traeger and two men carried Alec’s stiff, grinning body into a bizarre chamber that was almost completely carved with the brutal faces visible on the ruins above. Very little of the natural rock had been left uncleaved. The most elaborate work was the floor, where an agonized face, with a mammoth open mouth, gaped frozen in an eternal silent scream. Ruby crystals were set deep in the eye-sockets of the floor’s visage, gleaming crimson and reflecting the torches that were fixed to the wall. These torches jutted out of the eyes of the wall carvings, suggesting they had been blinded by impalement. Surrounded by the tortured faces, the chamber embodied unceasing torment.

  Von Traeger snapped his fingers, and Alec’s body was dumped into the maw on the ground. The corpse vanished into the blackness, but there was no sound of impact. Von Traeger stared into the endless darkness. “Odd how you never hear them hit bottom.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Laird MacGregor’s Manor

  Tasha and Ian travelled by gig (the one-horse cart was Ian’s official conveyance on the island) to the Laird’s manor. The sky had darkened, and a rising wind now bent the trees.

  There was already a small, black carriage by the front door. The Laird evidently had another visitor. Tasha beheld the unexpected gig in concern and told Ian to hurry. They both rushed to the door, which was opened by Angus. Tasha noted he was unshaven and his uniform was disheveled, but there was something else. Angus’s demeanour had not the impassive formality of a gentleman’s gentleman, but a man fighting for self-control. On a small island like Millport, nearly everyone recognised Ian. Angus stammered, “We … we weren’t expecting the authorities so promptly, sir.”

  Tasha brushed past him. “It’s the Laird, isn’t it?”

  Angus could only manage a weak nod. Ian quizzically stared at Mother, who kept her eyes on A
ngus and asked, in a softening tone, “How bad?”

  Angus seemed incapable of speech—his mouth opened wordlessly as he searched desperately around. Then, in relief, Angus spotted the old doctor at the top of the stairs with a Cammann binaural stethoscope, looking very much like its modern counterpart, around his neck.

  “Well, I think we’ve found out why Constable Blake couldn’t locate the good doctor to perform the autopsies,” said Tasha as she hurried up the stairs and asked again, “How bad?” The physician eyed her blankly and then placed the stethoscope in his ears.

  “I’m a wee bit hard of hearing, lass.” He held out the stethoscope for her, while Ian came up behind them. The doctor addressed him, “It’s an ugly business, Inspector. I just sent the lad for you. How did you find out?”

  Ian impatiently took the stethoscope from Tasha’s hands and spoke into it. “Find out what?”

  “That the Laird’s wife tried to murder him,” responded Tasha evenly.

  “Please, let me handle this!” Ian snapped his head back toward the doctor, who replied in a very loud voice, “The Laird’s wife attempted to murder him.”

  Ian cast a mean glare at Mother, who enjoyed it, “People on this island have peculiar pastimes.”

  The doctor shook his head grimly and boomed, “The Laird’s alive … for now. Nessie, Lady MacGregor, is quiet.”

  The three of them silently entered Nessie’s room. She sat in a high-backed chair, her eyes manically focused on the floor. An elderly maid was nervously in her Lady’s attendance.

  “Mother knew all along,” hissed Nessie, her unblinking gaze riveted to the floor. Then slowly, she shifted her notice to the people in the doorway. At the sight of Tasha, she flew from her chair in a sudden spasm of rage. “You! It was you! I knew it was!” She collided with Tasha, wrapping her fingers around her throat. “Slut! Mother said it would be you!”