Lady Sherlock

by Brooks Arthur Wachtel

  Tasha easily raised her arms, breaking Nessie’s chokehold. Ian tried to grasp her, but Nessie broke free and bolted out the door, fleeing down the hall.

  “Are you hurt?” Ian asked Tasha in concern.

  She shook her head. “I’m used to tantrums. I’m a mother.”

  The doctor prepared a hypo from his black bag. “If you can catch her, this’ll quiet her down.”

  Ian was ready for action, “We’ll search the place.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Mother replied quietly.

  Ian, about to argue, cut himself short as he noted Tasha’s focus was on the doorway. Angus stood there, seemingly having recovered his professional formality. “I can take you to her. This way, please.”

  The bedroom door was open. Angus stood back as Tasha, Ian, and the doctor, his syringe ready, peered inside. The boudoir, though old fashioned, was elegant. Nessie knelt at an ornate four-poster bed, talking to someone hidden by the thick bed-curtains that draped from above. Her words were confessional, but there was an underlying pleading, as if seeking approval. “I did just what you told me to do, Mother. I waited; I watched and bided my time. I caught him, just the way you promised.”

  Tasha made a signal and the trio silently entered, circling either side of the distracted woman. At once, Tasha and Ian grasped each of Nessie’s arms and pulled her away from the bed. She struggled, crying for her mother, shrieking that the men were trying to kill her. The old doctor plunged the syringe into Nessie’s arm and presently she became docile; her head dropped and her voice shriveled to an almost indistinct mumble, “They’re trying to kill me!”

  As Nessie became a dead weight in their arms, Tasha and Ian moved her to the bed, pushing away the curtains. There, propped against the headboard, exquisitely dressed in a silk night robe, was a startlingly real wax figure of an older woman who bore a resemblance to Nessie.

  “Mother?” mused Tasha to Angus, now entering the room.

  Angus nodded. “Yes, ma’am. The Laird had it made by Madame Tussauds from her death mask.”

  “I take it mother and daughter were close?” asked Tasha with a nod toward Nessie, “and she reacted strongly to her Mother’s passing.”

  “She never accepted the loss, ma’am. Her moods became darker.”

  Tasha nodded and, displaying no emotion for the pathetic creature in their arms, merely said, “Let’s not have her wake up in her mother’s bed.”

  Angus led them to Nessie’s room.

  Mother, Ian, and the doctor warmed themselves before the hearth in the Laird’s study. The doctor, still wearing his stethoscope, reached into his black bag as he explained, “Nessie suspected the Laird of wenching. When he returned home, she attacked him with this.” He pulled a dart from the Laird’s blowgun from his bag. “There was no poison on the dart, but it landed near his heart.”

  Ian, who was writing the facts down in his notebook, asked, “What are his chances?”

  The doctor only stared silently, until Tasha repeated the question into the stethoscope. The doctor responded with a shrug. Then he gave Mother a stern look. “She suspected that her husband was seeing you, lassie.”

  “Poor woman. Mad as a hatter,” Mother replied pleasantly into the stethoscope.

  The doctor squinted flinty eyes at her.

  Angus silently entered, bearing a tray of tea. Ian told the doctor that he was needed on pressing police business back at the pub and assured Angus that Constable Blake would be sent to take Nessie into custody.

  “I take it the Laird is no longer a suspect?” Mother asked Ian.

  “You know, you’re as subtle as a stampede,” he growled as he strode to the door.

  Outside the windows was the pitter-patter of rain.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Millport Village

  The long-brewing storm had arrived at last. Lightning flashed in the window of the pub, and Ian, hearing the rain smashing against the glass and the wail of the wind, took note of the tempest’s severity. He was focusing on the weather as a respite from his argument with Tasha. She sat at a table in the otherwise deserted pub.

  At last he turned from the window and shook his head, “Sorry, no.” Mother started to protest, but Ian raised his hand and continued. He couldn’t mask the mocking quality in his voice. “Excavate the ruins on Mr. McGloury’s farm! Dig up a historical treasure on the say-so of some local yarn the ferry captain spun for you!”

  “Local yarns may be embellished, but they always have a solid centre of fact.”

  “Real? Like that ‘banshee’ you said you saw?”

  “I said I saw someone trying to frighten Mr. McGloury by impersonating one.”

  “You also said that this here goblin left no footprints …”

  “She stood on stone, there are not always marks.”

  “And then it just up and …” Ian snapped his fingers. “Vamoosed like smoke!”

  “There is a well-hidden entrance to some chamber beneath those ruins.”

  “How do you know?” Ian asked with a short laugh.

  “Because it must be so.”

  Ian shook his head in exasperation. “It was foggy, it—she—could’ve just skedaddled off.”

  “Then there would be footprints. There were none. There is also a crack in the stones, very deep and free of accumulated dirt and home to neither insects nor shrubs. In short, a concealed entrance, used recently and no doubt controlled from within.”

  Ian shrugged, but before he could speak … “The cult must be under there and I will find the way in,” Tasha said with asperity rising in her voice.

  “Ancient cults! Old curses!” Ian flipped shut his notebook. “I can just see handin’ in a report like that. They think I’m kinda loco at the station as it is.”

  “Three singularly contented corpses should be conspicuous enough for even the official force.” Mother could spew sarcasm with the best of them. “There is also the connection between the tattoo on my assailant’s arm and the design at the ruins.”

  “Everyone in these parts knows those marks—folks here grew up with ’em.”

  “Do ‘folks here’ usually die from a death-grin poison? Have you seen reports of any similar deaths in the last several months?”

  Ian thought for a moment. “There was one.”

  Tasha leaned in closer. “McGloury’s older brother Rupert?”

  Ian was startled, his eyes locked on Mother. He contemplated her words then slowly nodded.

  Mother quickly continued, “Shall I draw you a picture, Inspector? Every instance of these gruesome demises has been connected with this island and in some way with McGloury’s croft. Rupert died that way—preventing him from selling the croft to the Laird, forcing it to remain in the McGloury family and luring my client back here.”

  “What for?” shot back Ian. “What’d they—if there is a they—want?”

  “I have several theories …”

  “Theories!” he said disparagingly. “Look, just because the Laird’s crazy wife tried to do him in, doesn’t clear him with me. He’s got a motive! It’s real, not a campfire tale.”

  “There is something buried deeply here, Inspector. This has scope. There is the work of an artist here, and one with an almost feminine sensitivity.”

  “The trail leads back to motive. The Laird—”

  “The Laird doesn’t have this kind of imagination,” interrupted Tasha. Her thoughts went back to “Captain Crocker” at the Inn of Illusion. “Take my word for it.”

  Ian walked over to her and pulled out a chair, took a deep breath and said quietly, “Tasha, people kick off all the time without dead religions doin’ the kickin’! Now I gotta admit that it’s one humdinger of a story, but this ain’t no storybook country. Glasgow’s just up the firth. And anyway, what about this church with that monk …”

  “Not a monk. He wore no cross and the church is an unused ruin.”

  “Well, whoever the varmints are, you say they’re spyin’ on the Dreadnought
? How does that fit in?”

  “How indeed?” was all she’d offer in answer.

  He waited for her to continue—but she didn’t. Mother had stated her case. Repetition, which some men called “nagging,” was not her forte.

  Ian raised his hands in a gesture of confusion. “Sorry, but if I’m gonna look like a tenderfoot to my boss, it’s gonna be on more evidence than some old salt’s fable.”

  “I have only shared this much because I need help from the official force to connect the links of my chain.”

  “You dig up some evidence I can use and you’ll get it!”

  “If we ‘dig up’ the ruins you’ll have it.”

  The back-room door opened and the doctor entered.

  In his massive voice, he replied, “Aye! It’s the same wicked poison that killed the wee lassie this morning. I dinnae suppose you’d care to confide what it is?”

  “I was hopin’ you’d know,” replied Ian.

  The doctor waved him off. “It’s nae good, I cannae hear you.”

  Ian opened his mouth for another effort, but Tasha took the stethoscope, put it in the doctor’s ear and said softly. “We don’t know.”

  The doctor gave a short laugh. “That wasnae worth hearing.” He tipped his hat and shambled off, when Tasha, still holding the stethoscope, pulled him back and asked, “I want to see the local records, as far back as they go. Especially anything relating to your ancient and infamous cult. Where are they?”

  The doctor answered at once, “In the Historical Society, of course. But it isnae open after two.” He pulled the stethoscope from her and retreated. She cut him off, and once more, spoke into the stethoscope.

  “I shall go there at once. Please give me the address.”

  “But they’re closed! They willnae open!” He had obviously not dealt with Mother before. He tried to pull the stethoscope away but it would not budge from her grip. After he reluctantly gave her the address, she released the stethoscope. The doctor plodded away, grumbling about persistent and irritating women.

  “What are you doing?” asked Ian, his irritation barely suppressed.

  “You want a motive. I will get you one!”

  “You are fearsome stubborn, lady.”

  “Thank you, but compliments, while appreciated, are hardly necessary.”

  Ian almost smiled at that. A heavy pelting of rain on the window drew Mother’s awareness to the fierce weather. “I suggest we borrow an umbrella.” She picked up his notebook from the table and handed it to him. “To keep your theories from drowning.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  London, The Admiralty

  Mycroft Holmes was addressing the same assembly of naval brass and high civilian personages who had attended the previous meeting.

  Ramsgate only half-listened as Mycroft reviewed the latest strains in the smouldering relationship between Britain and Germany. Ever since the young Kaiser Wilhelm had dismissed the “Iron Chancellor” Bismarck (and his careful policy of balancing European power), relations between the two nations had deteriorated. As long as Germany concentrated her military might on her efficient army, Britain could continue her policy of remaining aloof from the European rivalries. But now the German Navy was led by Grand Admiral Tirpitz, who, by gaining the Kaiser’s ear and shrewd moves in the Reichstag, was building a fleet in a direct challenge to the Royal Navy. Britain had to respond. She had a worldwide empire and a vast merchant fleet to protect. What’s more, Britain was an island that could not feed her people. Necessities came by sea.

  Kipling’s poem, “The Big Steamers,” drove home this point. It ended with the verse:

  For the bread that you eat and the biscuits you nibble

  The sweets that you suck and the joints that you carve

  They are brought to you daily by all us Big Steamers—

  And if any one hinders our coming you’ll starve!

  Kipling had done no more than give poetry to a hard reality. An imperial island nation could not survive without control of the sea. Britain had responded with a naval building programme of her own, and had also been forced into European alliances. The Dreadnought was merely Britain’s latest response in a game of move and counter-move. Any sane person, on a moment’s reflection, could see that the contest was pointless. Europe had never been more secure or prosperous. There was really nothing for the great powers to fight about. While Germany was late in the empire game and her hodge-podge of colonies made a very poor showing against the extensive holdings of the United Kingdom, Germany was quite wealthy without an extensive empire. Perhaps the young Kaiser simply wanted a big navy because his cousin on the British throne had one.

  There was an old story that the architect who had been commissioned to design the Admiralty had brought their Lordships the plans for an insane asylum by mistake. Not wanting to admit the error, he presented the plans and they were approved. Ramsgate thought there was a certain irony in hearing the condition of a mad world in a building designed for lunatics. But then, it was also perhaps the first office building built by the British government, ushering in the modern era of an ever-expanding professional bureaucracy.

  Mycroft finished up.

  “… and if you get hopping immediately, you’ll just make the train to Glasgow. I’ll see you all tomorrow on board Dreadnought. Good luck.”

  The meeting broke up and most left at once. As Ramsgate hurried past, Mycroft halted him with a raised finger. “Any communication from Lady Dorrington?”

  “Not a word. She’s silent as a tomb.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Millport Village

  Lightning illuminated the brass nameplate that read:

  Millport Historical Society

  By appointment only

  10:00–2:00

  Ian and Tasha, huddled under his umbrella, rushed through the fierce rain to the front door. Ian had offered her the sole use of the umbrella, but Mother insisted that they share. Ian complained that they should have waited for Constable Blake to return.

  “You left word where to find us. It’s more important to get you your evidence.” Tasha pulled on the doorbell. There was a deep reverberation, like the peeling of Big Ben.

  “Good God!” said Ian in surprise.

  “It is rather loud,” agreed Tasha. “Whoever is inside must be …” She had a sudden realisation. “Deaf!”

  A peephole in the door slid away, revealing the old doctor. “We’re nae open!” he announced, and then slid the peephole shut. Tasha rose to the challenge and pulled madly on the bell wire. The cacophony was appalling.

  “What are you doing?” shouted Ian over the din.

  “I intend to get us in there!” said Tasha with finality.

  “A quid says you don’t!”

  Ian’s money was still on a table as lightning flashed outside the Historical Society’s tiny reading room window. He paused from cleaning the two revolvers before him as he ruefully noted his money. More thunder and lightning drew his notice to the worsening of the storm.

  “It’s darn mean out there,” noted Ian.

  Tasha, half-hidden by stacks of ancient volumes, was too absorbed by her reading to notice the inclement weather. She simply continued her intense studies, placing one musty volume on a tall stack to her left—which represented several hours worth of her research—while reaching for another on an even larger pile of books on her right—the ones she had still yet to peruse. There were also two massive antique books, open and placed off on the corner.

  Ian picked up Tasha’s Webley British Bulldog Revolver, a dainty piece compared to his formidable and longer-barreled Colt six-gun. Its compact design, which could easily fit in a pocket, made the Bulldog the popular choice with plainclothes detectives, but its short barrel, made for close work, was not a marvel of long range accuracy. “I swear, Tasha, I could spit more on-target than this little Webley hog-leg of yours!”

  There was again no response. He continued to clean the revolvers. Tasha intently studied a m
assive tome, running her finger along the page, tapping her digit excitedly. “Aha! Capital! Rewards to the persistent. As my famous colleague once exclaimed, ‘if the green-grocer had such a thing as a laurel wreath, I should send for one!’”

  Ian gave her his full attention. She laughed elatedly, read and explained: “The cult that flourished here in the seventh century, though they were occasionally misidentified as Druid …”

  “Weren’t the Druids ancient Celtic priests or something?”

  “Priests, wise men, physicians, mathematicians. Imagine Merlin from the Arthurian tales. But our group was more akin to demon worshippers. It’s not conclusive, but they may have even practised some form of human sacrifice.”

  Ian motioned for her to continue. Tasha slid over one of the open books on the table’s corner and pointed to a passage. “It seems that over time, animals replaced the human victims. The cult’s symbol was … the crescent-moon … wonderful … and they were called the Circle of the Smiling Dead!”

  Ian leaned in.

  “It gets better,” she said with rising pleasure, and returned to the book in front of her. “The cult was led by a priestess who always assumed the ancestral name ‘Deirdre.’”

  “The name the girl screamed before she died, ain’t it?”

  Tasha nodded and then continued reading, “… they hated the ancient Christians and vowed to die rather than convert. They hid deep in the belly of the earth, and remained hidden until … until one of their own betrayed them to the church for nine pieces of silver. And the name of this latter-day Judas was McGloury!”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Caverns, Prison Chamber

  “I’m distressed you haven’t been comfortable, Mr. McGloury,” said Deirdre to a barrel-chested man in a nautical pea-coat, bound in chains to the ragged rock walls of a cramped chamber used as a prison cell. An oil lamp, sitting on the floor against the opposite wall, cast huge, lurid shadows throughout the craggy chamber. Deirdre watched from the entrance as a guard, in farmer’s garb, roughly pulled off one of the prisoner’s boots. “I’d have paid a visit sooner, but I’ve been so busy.” Deirdre continued in cheerful conversation. “Still, as the first McGloury in over three hundred years to come home to Millport, well, I simply had to make time for you.”