Lady Sherlock

by Brooks Arthur Wachtel

  He tried to reach for her, fighting the short chains, but they constrained him well out of reach. “You scurvy little gutter-snipe!” he growled in a voice that was used to being in authority. The guard backhanded him with his own boot. McGloury’s head—for this was the real McGloury and not the dissembling soft-handed imposter who had hired Tasha—snapped against the wall, and his anger changed to dread.

  “Why … why are you doing this?” The terror became more pronounced as he realised he was dealing with a madwoman.

  “How quickly they forget. Your fate was decided the day you returned to Millport!” Her eyes took on a faraway look and her voice became a whisper. “No … it was decided long, long before that.”

  McGloury simply stared at her, vainly trying to make some sense of her words.

  “I will exact the full penalty long after you are gone,” continued Deirdre, still lost in the vision her mind was conjuring, “A retribution that will be forever!” Her mood altered, as if a switch had been turned and Deidre’s passionate reverie ceased, her features again became impassive. She extended her hand and the guard obediently gave her McGloury’s boot. “I need this for a little while, Mr. McGloury, but it will be returned before you leave us.”

  Not far away, in another equally small chamber, Von Traeger was lashing Boab, the bogus McGloury’s “lost” collie, with a whip. Boab, beaten into mindless ferocity, snarled at the German, straining at his leash—which was tied to the wall—as Von Traeger took McGloury’s boot from Deirdre and rubbed it in the animal’s face. “He will be vicious at this scent, Geistliche Deirdre.”

  She snapped her fingers and Von Traeger stood away from the dog. Boab strained at the leash in feral desperation, as Deirdre, just out of reach, smiled faintly at his viciousness. She walked out, giving Von Traeger a rare nod of approval. “You have a way with animals.” Von Traeger clicked his heels and jolted to attention with pride and Prussian precision.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Millport Village

  Mother, still researching in the Historical Society reading room, was explaining her findings to Ian, “… and the Christians burned the Priestess Deirdre at the stake as a bana-bhuidseach—a witch. She vowed revenge on the McGloury clan, and revenge on all Christians—until the end of forever.”

  Tasha was quite pleased with herself. Ian couldn’t deny the connections, but he was irked to admit it, “A thousand years is a powerful long time to hold a grudge.”

  “The old wheel turns slowly, Inspector, but the same spoke will come up again,” she answered. “Three hundred years ago, practically yesterday, there was a resurgence of the cult—around the time of the Restoration. Priests were killed; churches in the area were destroyed. By coincidence, at that time, a McGloury was living on the croft, the first in memory to do so. He was murdered, found with the old ‘Risus sardonicus …’” She grinned ear-to-ear and Ian nodded in understanding. She added, “The signature of the Circle of the Smiling Dead.”

  Lightning flashed outside as the storm worsened, taking Ian’s attention to the window. The distraction was short, and he watched Tasha out of the corner of his eye. He was impressed—and not at the storm. “It riles me to say so, but ma’am, you’ve struck pay-dirt.”

  Tasha raised her finger and gestured to the open books that littered the table. There was more. “That McGloury was warned of his death for three nights of three weeks. Nine nights. One for each piece of silver paid to his ancestor by the Christians.” She stopped suddenly. “The ninth night!”

  The realisation hit Mother like a fire-bell. She bolted from her chair, snatched up her Webley revolver from the table, as well as the one-pound note she had won in the bet, and raced out. Ian was lost for a second, then grabbed his heavy Colt revolver, and dashed after her.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  McGloury Croft

  Before Ian could halt the gig, Tasha—like Ian, soaking wet from the cold rain—leapt to the road, peering ahead to the ruins. Above the rain and fierce wind, they could hear the eerie chanting of more than a dozen voices.

  “Utter fool that I was to desert him!” yelled Tasha over the din. “Look!”

  The ruins odd appearance was even more distorted by the ferocity of the storm. The ancient shrine was torch-lit and full of black-robed people standing on various levels of the rocks. There were eighteen in all: nine men and nine women; every one of them wore masks that mimicked a goat’s heads with exaggerated horns. The torches were sheltered from the elements by alcoves cut into the dolmens. They created a harsh contrast of flickering red light and dancing black shadows that that exaggerated the malevolent atmosphere. Some sort of ceremony was transpiring, and the gathered all gave voice to a rhythmic chant. The horns of the masks turned in unison to the altar stone, where there was erected a black-robed effigy of an ancient demon-god, with crescent-moons on the robe and flaring horns protruding from the distorted goat-like animal skull that formed the sinister head.

  From the roadway, Tasha and Ian scrutinized the proceedings in front of them.

  “I don’t see McGloury!” yelled Ian.

  “They have him. Depend on it!” said Tasha bitterly, as she drew her revolver and dashed to the ruins as fleetly as the mud-soaked ground would permit. Ian followed close behind.

  Two masked men dragged a live goat to the altar. The robes of the effigy parted as Deirdre, in her priestess robes and bearing an ornate mask, emerged in flowing white with a crescent moon dangling near her breast. She raised a crude stone dagger and with one accurate stroke, slit the animal’s throat left to right. The chanting abruptly stopped and, save for the rain—the wind had died down—there was silence. Deirdre addressed the assembly in a disguised whisper. She pointed to a dolmen and motioned, “Come here.”

  Tasha and Ian stepped from behind the towering monolith, weapons in hand. There they were, Mother and Ian, alone in these sinister ruins, surrounded by this silent, motionless mob of masked demon worshipers.

  Deirdre, with a bend of her finger, bid them forward.

  Tasha boldly marched in, but Ian, his eyes darting from place to place, followed nervously. They reached the altar, and he pointed his revolver at Deirdre. “Up with your hands … ma’am.”

  He was ignored, even by Tasha. She was focused on Deirdre—who, with her face concealed and her voice disguised, Mother failed to recognise from their meeting at the Hermes. But she had put enough together to ask, “Deirdre, is it not?”

  The priestess nodded.

  Tasha nodded in return. “We meet at last.”

  Deirdre’s smirk was just visible under the lower part of the mask. The cult members burst into laughter. Ian scowled at the masked faces made hideous by the malicious hysterics that surrounded them, but Mother kept her eyes on Deirdre. The priestess raised her finger and the laughter stopped. An impressive display of discipline.

  “We’ve met before,” came the mocking reply from behind the priestess’s mask.

  “When?” There was no answer. “Where is McGloury?” Again no answer, just Deirdre’s maddening half-smile behind the ornate mask. “You are already responsible for two murders,” continued Mother.

  “Three,” Deirdre whispered. “Now four.” She dramatically raised her arm and at once there was a vicious howling and human scream from the direction of the cliff. Tasha spun to see, indistinct through the storm and distance, the blur of a dog lunging for the throat of the vague shape of a man. That shape screamed again.

  “McGloury!” yelled Tasha as she sprang into action.

  She heard Deirdre’s mock sympathetic taunt. “Help him. You never fail.”

  As Tasha and Ian raced toward the cliff, Deirdre, unmoving and regal, removed her mask, revealing her luminous eyes. Somewhere, faint in her throat, was a chuckle. “The cleverest woman in Europe.”

  At that moment the “cleverest woman” was aiming her gun at the dog, but hound and human were intertwined as they struggled toward the cliff, making a clean shot impossible. She was too late.
The battle ended as man and beast tumbled over the precipice, their screams and howls vanishing with them. Mother stopped and staggered as if she’d been physically hit. Her mind screamed in protest. There was no point in giving it actual voice, and she bolted toward the cliff. She didn’t hear Ian’s warning—and would have ignored it if she had. Then the muddy ground crumbled under her feet and she slipped over the edge. She plummeted only for a second—Ian grasped her arm and, painfully, pulled her back up.

  Mother’s normal reserve was gone; she was desperate and fighting back tears. She had failed. Her client was dead.

  After Ian pulled her over the edge, Tasha lay on the wet ground, rain pouring on her face. He stood and drew her to her feet. She silently walked past him and stared at the ruins. A flash of lightning illuminated them in vivid white light and black shadow. All was silent and deserted. Suppressing her rage, Tasha studied the now empty rocks, as Ian, behind her, spotted something at his feet.

  He hurriedly retrieved a man’s wallet while Tasha scrutinized the ruins. Ian slipped it into his coat pocket. Tasha turned to him, struggling for self-control. Her voice was strained. “McGloury’s dog was missing this morning—and I didn’t comprehend its importance.” She stood stiffly, as if afraid to move. Ian placed his hands on her shoulders. She didn’t react.

  “Come on,” he said softly.

  Mother didn’t move and answered through clenched teeth. “He came to me for protection!” She jerked away from the Inspector.

  “Tasha!” Ian took her in his arms and turned her toward him while peering deep into her quivering face. He saw no longer the self-assured sleuth, but a beautiful and vulnerable woman. He kissed her and she responded, her arms circling his neck.

  This intimate moment was not theirs alone.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The Caverns, Deirdre’s Chamber

  Deirdre, expressionless, watched Tasha and Ian with her camera obscura. Sebastian, in his naval commander’s uniform, frowned down at Tasha’s image. “Why don’t you simply kill her?” he asked evenly. He expected a sharp retort, but to his surprise, Deirdre chuckled quietly, though she did not look away from the image on her viewing stone.

  “Sebastian! You’re jealous. How touching. Understand. If you kill someone they’re dead. But to shatter the will, erode the spirit, destroy someone utterly … that really does take a woman’s touch. So understand that I …”

  She stopped as her concentration locked on the image of Ian leading Tasha into the cottage.

  Sebastian walked over to the four-poster bed and parted the curtains. There I was, huddled in the corner of the bed. Something in the food they gave me had knocked me out. The effect of the drug on my seven-year-old body must have been severe.

  I had been lured away from Nanny Roberts by a small puppy, reputedly sent as a gift from my Mother through Inspector Ramsgate, in the same park where the Admiralty officer had been murdered. My abduction was neatly done. The arrangements that brought us to the park seemed authentic. The note was on Ramsgate’s official stationary and said, “Look for a surprise.” A Scottish Terrier puppy toddled up with a bright scarlet ribbon around its neck and a card attached. Nanny Roberts read the note, which said, “Follow me.”

  She set the adorable little creature on the ground, and it scuttled around the curve of the hedge. I was in hot pursuit, clutching my Teddy Bear tightly. Nanny Roberts kept to her bench and stayed with her reading, watching me as I ran. Nothing seemed amiss.

  I followed the puppy, darting through the crack in the hedge. Someone’s arms reached around me from behind. I have no idea if it was chloroform or some other substance, but I was out in seconds. My limp form was placed in a hidden compartment in a large double perambulator, and I was wheeled away, I suspect right past Nanny Roberts. Not enough time had passed to alarm her. I don’t even know if it was Deirdre who kidnapped me or some other confederate.

  After a full two minutes had passed, Nanny Roberts, now concerned, followed my path. She entered the hedge, but by then there was no one there—only my Teddy Bear, propped against the hedge with its black little eyes and sewn-on smile directed at Nanny. Then the puppy scampered up to her. There was another note tied to the scarlet ribbon, this one addressed to Lady Natasha Dorrington. Nanny Roberts scooped up the puppy and note, and ran to find the nearest constable.

  Although I assume there were periods when I was awake, all I can recall with clarity was nodding off in that plush room behind the opium den in Limehouse … a dreamlike image of a private train compartment … and waking up on a fishing-smack in the Firth of Clyde. The hold of the small boat was dark, cold, and damp. The smell of the sea told me I was far from home and safety. I was terrified, and as events were to prove, with very good reason.

  Chapter Thirty

  The McGloury Croft

  Mother stared at the telegram. Her usually sharp mind was momentarily drained of all but the information tersely written in the old semaphore woman’s precise handwriting on the rain-spattered telegraph form. It had been waiting inside the cottage, left by messenger earlier in the afternoon.

  The lightning threw Mother into vivid relief. Ian, seeing Tasha stunned and staring blankly at the telegram, pulled it gently from her hands. Before he could read it, Mother said quietly, “My daughter—kidnapped! I must return to London!”

  She turned and rushed to the door, but Ian grabbed her arm firmly.

  “Not in this storm. The ferry can’t get across.”

  “I must go!”

  He pulled her to him. She pushed back, breaking his grip, shoved him away, and turned back to the door. Ian again clutched her arm. “Trying to get across now’s a ticket to boot hill! You’ll drown. Will that help your kid?”

  Mother glowered at him in turmoil. She knew that leaving Millport Island was a physical impossibility, yet she also knew that I was in danger, and her impotence to act was tearing her apart. She buried her head in his chest and he stroked her hair. Her features distorted as her mind fought to regain control. There were no tears.

  “In the morning, Tasha,” he whispered.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The Caverns, Deirdre’s Chamber

  Deirdre ceaselessly watched on her camera obscura, as if staring at the image long enough could enable her vision to penetrate the walls to peer inside. Behind her, Sebastian was closing the curtains on the big four-poster bed.

  “She’s asleep. How much of your potions can a child endure?” he challenged.

  Deirdre was annoyed at having to shift her attention away from the projection of the cottage. “Shouldn’t you be back aboard Dreadnought?”

  Her inflection nipped at his belligerence. “No, not until eight bells, four this morning … or when the storm clears.”

  “You look tired. Go to sleep,” she said, her contemplation again pinned to the cottage. He moved to her, but she ignored him and continued her expectant vigil.

  Sebastian made one more attempt to engage her. “You’ve been right about everything. Half the government will be on board. We’ll be at war with Germany in a week and then all of Europe will explode. Precisely as you planned it.”

  His praise had no effect. She kept staring, expressionless, into her device. Suddenly, in the reflection, the cottage light dimmed.

  Deirdre leaned in closer, her fingers gripping the side of the viewing stone in anticipation. “Ah, Lady Dorrington, I predict you so very well.”

  Sebastian, hurt, impulsively pulled the lever cutting off the light from above and the image vanished. “And one more piece drops into place! Why this piece? Why her?”

  Deirdre straightened and perceived Sebastian with surprised amusement. “You presume to question me.”

  His temper was up as he glared at her and warned, “You’re risking a lot for a wee bit of pride. Kill her.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The McGloury Croft

  Tasha and Ian were stretched out on a sheepskin before the fire, having just finished making love. Moth
er would later tell herself that the act was simply a mechanism to purge her frustrations, suppress her emotions, and allow her intellect to regain control. Then all her formidable powers—unhindered and sharp—would be singularly devoted to my rescue. And while her strategy would likely work, at that moment her eyes glistened with tears. Ian caressed her wet cheek.

  “Human at last. I wasn’t sure. You were like some kind of thinkin’ machine.”

  She said nothing, for it was not the time for words, only physical release. Tasha drew closer and kissed him passionately.

  Later, when only a few embers remained of the spent fire, the storm had abated, and all was at last quiet. Ian slept under the sheepskin, but Tasha was not beside him. She stood at the door, wrapped in a blanket. Ian’s coat hung on a hook and she was searching through the pockets. She withdrew the wallet Ian had stealthily recovered at the cliff. Mother opened it and scanned the contents. She removed a folded document and read it by the dim oil lamp at the table.

  She held a Mariner’s Masters Certificate issued to Cedric McGloury in 1897.

  Tasha’s face lost its tender vulnerability and hardened. She sat at the table, set the document down, stretched out her long legs, and tented her palms and fingers. And there she sat, physically still; her mind moving pieces of a thought puzzle this way and that.