Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

by Bonnie MacBird

  I found the vessel behind a stack of books. It was empty.

  ‘I am sorry, Watson, there is no brandy to be had,’ said he. ‘The shops are barren except for a few outside my budget. You have heard of the problems with the vineyards in France? I have been studying the subject. But I can offer you this.’

  From next to him on a side table, he lifted a beaker of clear liquid. He poured a very small amount into each of two glasses. ‘Try it,’ he said, with a smile.

  I took the glass and sniffed. I felt a sudden clearing of my sinus cavities and a burning in the back of my head.

  ‘Good God, Holmes, this smells lethal!’

  ‘I assure you it is not. Give it a try. Here, I will drink with you.’ He raised his glass for a toast. ‘Count of three. One. Two—’

  On three we both gulped the liquid down. I erupted into such a fit of coughing and tearing of the eyes that I did not notice whether my companion did or not. When it subsided, I looked up to find he had tears streaming down his reddened face and was laughing and coughing in equal measure.

  ‘What is this stuff?’ I sputtered, wiping myself with a handkerchief.

  ‘Raw spirits. Distilled pure whisky, but before the ageing which renders it mellow. I diluted it with water, but clearly not enough.’

  He held up a small booklet, entitled The Complete Practical Distiller.

  ‘That was a rather mean trick.’

  ‘Forgive me, my dear fellow. All in the name of science.’

  A sharp pop and a sudden loud hiss emanated from the chemistry table. I glanced back at the complex system of flasks, copper containers and tubing.

  Holmes normally employed a small spirit lamp to heat his chemicals, but I now noticed a very bright flame arising from a Bunsen burner which was connected by a length of rubber tubing to the wall. Over this was suspended a small, riveted copper kettle in a strange teardrop shape, one end drooping into a line which proceeded through valves and tubes into various looped and coiled copper configurations, complex and confusing, and—

  ‘Holmes!’ I cried. ‘That is a miniature still!’

  ‘Ah, Watson, you improve. Decidedly.’

  ‘But you have tapped into the gas line! Why? Is that not dangerous?’

  ‘I needed a higher temperature. And, no, it is not dangerous when you take the precaution of—’

  The noise had increased. The entire apparatus began to vibrate. The copper kettle and odd configuration of tubes and beakers rattled and shook. One clamp came loose and clattered off the table to the floor. A tube shook free and several drops of liquid arced into the air.

  ‘Holmes—!’ I began, but he was up and out of his chair, bounding across the room when a sudden small explosion blew the lid off the copper vessel, broke three glass tubes and an adjacent beaker, and sent a spray of foul smelling liquid up the nearby wall and across a row of books. A flame erupted underneath it.

  We shouted simultaneously and in a flash he was upon the equipment, dousing the fire with a large, wet blanket pulled from a bucket he had evidently placed nearby in anticipation of such a possibility. The blanket slid down among the broken pieces. The flame went out and there was silence except for a low sizzle.

  The room now reeked of raw alcohol, and a dark, burnt smell. A slow drip fell from the table to the carpet.

  Mrs Hudson’s familiar sharp knock sounded at the door. ‘Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?’ she called out. ‘A young lady is here to see you.’

  Holmes and I looked at each other like two schoolboys caught smoking. As one, we leapt to tidy the room. Holmes flung a second wet cloth sloppily over the steaming mess in the corner while I used a newspaper to whisk some broken glass and other bits under an adjacent desk.

  I threw open the window to let out the hideous odour and in a moment we were back in our chairs, another log tossed onto the fire.

  ‘Show her in, by all means, Mrs Hudson,’ shouted Holmes.

  He picked up his cold pipe and assumed an insouciant air. I was less quick to compose myself and was still sitting on the edge of my chair when the door opened.

  CHAPTER 2

  Isla

  rs Isla McLaren of Braedern,’ announced Mrs Hudson.

  Into the room stepped a vibrant young woman of about twenty-eight, exquisitely poised, small and delicate in stature. I was struck immediately by her beauty and graceful deportment but equally by the keen intelligence radiating from her regard. She was elegantly clothed in a deep purple travelling costume of rich wool, trimmed with small touches of tartan, gold and lace about the throat.

  Her luxurious hair was brown with glints of copper, and her eyes a startling blue-green behind small gold spectacles. She removed these, took in the room, the mess, the smell and the two of us in one penetrating and amused glance. I immediately thought of a barrister assessing an opponent.

  ‘Oh, my,’ she said, sniffing the air.

  A strong, rank odour emanated from the contraption, the newspapers and wet cloth on the chemistry table. This mess continued to hiss and clank intermittently.

  I rose quickly to greet her. Holmes remained seated, staring at her in a curious manner.

  ‘Madam, welcome. Let me close the window. It is so cold,’ I offered, moving towards it.

  ‘Leave it,’ commanded Holmes, stopping me in my tracks. ‘Do come in, Mrs McLaren, and be seated.’

  The lady hesitated and suppressed a cough. ‘Some air is welcome. Well, Mr Holmes, how clearly you have been described in the newspapers. And you must be Dr Watson.’ Her accent carried a hint of the soft lilt of the Highlands, but modified by a fine education. I liked her immediately.

  Holmes appraised her coolly. ‘Do sit down, Mrs McLaren, and state your case. And please, be succinct. I am very busy at the moment.’ He waved a hand, indicating the settee before us. I knew for a fact that Holmes had no case at present.

  The lady smiled. ‘Yes, I see that you are very busy.’

  ‘Welcome, madam,’ I repeated, mystified by my friend’s unaccountable rudeness and attempting to mitigate it. ‘We are at your service.’

  ‘Let me come straight to the point,’ said she, now seated before us. ‘I live in Scotland, in the Highlands to be more precise, at Braedern Castle, residence of Sir Robert McLaren, the laird of Braedern.’

  ‘McLaren of Braedern. Yes, I know that name,’ said Holmes arising languidly with a slow stretch and then in a sudden movement vaulting over the back of his low chair as if on springs. Arriving at the bookcase, he ran his finger along several volumes of his filed notes, pulled down one and rifled through it.

  ‘Ah, McLaren. Whisky baron. Member of Parliament. Working at the time of this article to establish business in London. Effectively, it appears. A Tory. Unusual for a Scot. Widower. Late wife very wealthy. And, ah, yes. Go on.’

  He returned with the file and draped himself once more in the chair.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He is my father-in-law.’

  ‘Obviously. It says here a daughter who did not survive infancy, and three sons.’

  ‘You are not au courant. Two sons survive. The eldest, Donal, died three years ago, killed during the siege of Khartoum.’

  ‘You are married to one of the remaining sons. Not Charles, the current eldest, but Alistair, the younger.’

  Mrs McLaren smiled. ‘That is correct, Mr Holmes. And how did you deduce this?’

  I did not like Holmes’s regard. ‘Madam, how can we help you?’ I said.

  But the lady persisted. ‘Mr Holmes?’ she wondered.

  ‘It is obvious. Your ring. Lady McLaren’s famous amethyst and emerald engagement ring – I have a clipping here on its history – matches your dress perfectly and would surely be on your hand if you had married the elder son. The rest of your jewellery is quite modest. Therefore the younger son.’

  The lady put a hand to her small gold brooch from which dangled a charm. Along with a simple wedding band and gold earrings this was the sum total of her jewellery. She smiled.

  ‘Regar
ding my jewellery, perhaps I am simply not in the habit of overt display, Mr Holmes. Rather like yourself.’ Her eyes flicked to his dressing gown.

  ‘Nevertheless?’ Holmes said. She remained silent. Her silence was a tacit acknowledgment. He smiled to himself, then he got up and moved back to the fireplace, making rather a fuss over his pipe. It struck me that she simultaneously disturbed him in some way, and at the same time incited those tendencies which I can only describe as showing off.

  ‘I have come to London to attend the opera, see my dressmaker, and to do a little Christmas shopping,’ she began. ‘While I was here, I thought—’

  ‘On second thought, I have heard enough, Mrs McLaren.’

  ‘Good grief, Holmes! Madam, I beg your forgiveness,’ said I. ‘Please do relate your concerns. We are all ears.’

  Before she could answer, Holmes barked out, ‘Your husband either is, or you imagine he is, having an affair. I do not deal in marital squabbles. Kindly close the door behind you.’ He moved sharply away to a bookcase and stood there, his back to her.

  She remained seated.

  Holmes paused and turned around. ‘Really, madam, I beg you. What would your family think of this visit?’

  ‘It matters little what my family might think of my visit. I am quite on my own in this matter. Your opinions, while incorrect, are of moderate interest. Do enlighten me as to your train of thought.’

  She had opened Pandora’s box. ‘Madam, mine are not opinions, but facts,’ he began in his didactic manner.

  ‘Go on,’ said she.

  ‘Holmes!’

  ‘If you insist. You have recently lost weight. For you, this may be considered beneficial. I observe that your dress has been taken in by a less than professional hand. However, something has changed. You have had your hair elaborately done and now are buying new clothes. The latest fashions are little valued in the Highlands, rather the opposite, and it is too cold for most of them. You are either having an affair here – but not likely as you are wearing your wedding ring – or trying to remake yourself to be more attractive to your husband. The jewellery I have explained. Now please, go away.’

  ‘You are wrong on several counts, Mr Holmes, but right on two,’ said she. ‘I do wish to make myself as attractive as possible. For women, it is sadly our main, although transient, source of power. Perhaps that may change some day. And yes, Alistair is my husband.’

  Holmes sighed. ‘Of course.’

  ‘However I have not lost weight, this dress has always been too large, and I have fashioned my hair myself. I shall take both errors as compliments.’

  Holmes nodded curtly.

  ‘Why, Mr Holmes, do you have such disdain for women? And what is that smell? Never mind. I wish to get to business. I am here to consult you on a case. I see that you are a bit low on funds, so perhaps you had better hear me out.’

  Holmes exhaled sharply. ‘Pray be brief, then, madam. What exactly is puzzling you?’

  ‘One moment, Mrs McLaren,’ said I. ‘What makes you think Mr Holmes is in need of funds? Surely you are aware of several of our recent cases which have reached the news.’

  ‘Yes, and I do look forward to your full accounts of them, Dr Watson.’

  Just then a sharp noise came from under the wet cloth and it suddenly slid off Holmes’s chemistry table. Holmes leapt to replace the blanket over the crude homemade still but not before the lady had a clear look.

  ‘An experiment,’ said Holmes sharply. ‘Will you not tell us your problem?’

  She appraised him with cool eyes. ‘In a moment, sir. First I will answer Dr Watson. I see clearly that Mr Holmes requires cash. He has recently had his boots resoled instead of buying new. His hair is badly in need of a barber’s attentions. And his waistcoat, trousers, and dressing gown should be laundered, and soon. This does not fit with your description of Mr Holmes. He is either despondent or conserving money. His spirit bottles on the sideboard are empty, and he is rather ridiculously attempting to refill them with homemade spirits. Therefore the latter, most likely.’

  ‘It is a chemical experiment,’ snapped Holmes. ‘If you require my assistance, please state your case now.’

  Isla McLaren reclined in her chair and flashed a small smile at me.

  ‘There have been a series of strange incidents in and around Braedern Castle,’ said she. ‘I cannot connect them and yet I feel somehow they are linked. I also sense a growing danger. Braedern Castle, as you may know if it appears in your files Mr Holmes, is reputed to be haunted.’

  ‘Every castle in Scotland is said to be haunted. You Scots are very fond of your ghosts and your faeries.’

  ‘I did not say that I thought that ghosts were at work. Quite a few of my fellow Scots demonstrate the capacity for rational thought, Mr Holmes. For instance, James Clerk Maxwell, James Watt, Mary Somerville …’

  ‘Yes, yes, the namesake of your college at Oxford. I see the charm dangling from your brooch, Mrs McLaren.’

  Oxford! Isla McLaren grew in stature before my eyes. Somerville College for women was highly regarded, and the young ladies who attended were thought to be among the brightest in the Empire.

  ‘As I was saying, our small country has contributed a disproportionate number of geniuses in mathematics, medicine and engineering.’

  Holmes at last took a seat and faced her, his aspect suddenly altered. ‘I cannot contradict you, Mrs McLaren,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. Let us address your problem.’

  Mrs McLaren took a deep breath and regarded my friend for a moment, as if trying to decide something. ‘There have been a series of curious events at Braedern. Perhaps the strangest is this. Not long ago, a young parlour maid disappeared from the estate under unusual circumstances.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Holmes, as he opened and once again began to flip through the file.

  ‘Fiona Paisley is her name. She was a very visible member of staff, quite beautiful, with flame red hair nearly to her waist.’

  ‘Is? Was? Be clear, Mrs McLaren. Where is she now?’

  ‘Back at work, but—’

  ‘Continue. An attractive servant disappeared briefly but has returned. What is the mystery?’

  ‘She did not simply return. She arrived in a basket, bound, drugged, and with her beautiful hair cut off down to the scalp.’

  This had at last piqued Holmes’s interest.

  ‘Start from the beginning. Tell me of the girl, and the dates of these events.’

  ‘Fiona disappeared last Friday. She returned two days later, three days ago.’

  ‘Why did you wait to consult me?’

  ‘Allow me to tell you this in my own way, Mr Holmes.’

  Holmes sighed, and waved her to continue.

  ‘Fiona was flirtatious and forward, quite charming in her way. She had many admirers. Every man in the estate remarked upon her. We thought at first she had run off with someone until the servants appealed to the laird en masse, insisting that she had been kidnapped.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No one else was missing. She would not have run off alone. And then her shoe was found near the garden behind the kitchen. A search party was sent out, but discovered nothing else.’

  ‘But she has returned. What was her story? Did she not see her attacker?’

  ‘No. She could offer no clues.’

  Holmes sighed and rose to find another cigarette on the mantle. He lit the cigarette casually. ‘Very well. Every man in the estate noticed her. Might your husband have done so?’

  ‘“Every” means “every”.’

  ‘Then you suspect an affair? Perhaps retribution? Is it possible that you or another woman in the house felt threatened by the girl?’

  ‘Why would I have come to you if I were the perpetrator?’

  ‘Mrs McLaren, believe me, it has been tried. Let us be frank. There is a certain degree of conceit in your self-presentation.’

  ‘I would describe it as confidence, not conceit. Will you hear me out, or is your need to put me in my
place so much greater than your professional courtesy? Or, perhaps more apropos to you, your curiosity?’

  To his credit, my friend received the reprimand with grace. ‘Forgive me. Pray continue, Mrs McLaren. The shoe that was found near the garden. Was there no sign of a struggle, nothing beyond the one object?’

  ‘None. I made enquiries and undertook a physical search of my own, but her room yielded nothing and the area where the shoe was found was by then so trampled that it was impossible to learn anything.’

  ‘Do you mean you played at detective work yourself, Mrs McLaren? Would not a call to the police have been in order?’

  ‘I think not, Mr Holmes. Dr Watson has made clear in his narrative your opinion of most police detective work. Our local constable is derelict in his duty. He is, quite frankly, a drunk. The laird refused to call him in.’

  ‘Yet I hardly think an untrained amateur such as yourself would be—’

  I shot a warning glance at my friend. He was, I felt being unduly harsh. This woman had set something off in him I did not understand.

  Isla McLaren was unfazed. ‘It is Fiona’s own story that concerns me. She was frightened beyond words. She was taken at night and there was a heavy mist. She saw nothing.’

  ‘Yes, well, what then?’

  ‘She awoke in a cold damp place, on what felt like a stone floor with some straw laid atop, apparently for meagre comfort. She was bound tightly but with padded ropes, and with her eyes covered. She had a terrible headache.’

  Holmes had returned to his chair, and was now listening eagerly. ‘Chloroform, then. Easily obtained. Effective, if crude. Next?’

  ‘Someone who never spoke a word to her stole in and proceeded to cut off her hair with what felt like a very sharp knife. It was done carefully and she had the impression that the person was arranging the locks of hair beside her in some way. Possibly to keep it.’

  Holmes exhaled and leaned back. ‘But not harmed otherwise?’

  ‘Not a bruise upon her. However, for a woman, her hair—’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. It does grow back. Who discovered the basket?’