Читать книгу Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Adventure - Bonnie Macbird - Страница 9

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.

‘Regarding 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?’

‘The second footman who was leaving to post some letters.’

‘Is that all? Where is the girl now?’

‘At home, but unable to work. She is beside herself. Fiona was superstitious before, and her friends have tried to convince her the kidnapping was the work of something supernatural.’

‘Why on earth?’

‘The attack was so silent. She neither saw nor heard anyone approach.’

Holmes leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He did not move for several seconds.

‘Mrs McLaren, tell me more of the girl, her character, her reputation.’

‘Fiona has, or had before her abduction, a sparkling demeanour, flirtatious and flighty. She is no scholar, though canny. She has been unable to learn to read, but enjoys attention and is straightforward about it. I really do not dislike the girl at all, in fact I quite like her. She is, without the slightest effort, a magnet for male attention. I have not bothered to track her own affections or actions, but I wager that there could be any number of men or women who might be jealous of the attention she receives.’

‘You imply much, but can you confirm any specific affairs? A husband’s attraction to a pretty servant would certainly trouble most women, Mrs McLaren. Even you.’

‘I am not most women, Mr Holmes. But I think Fiona’s attractions may be beside the point. I think her desecration is the beginning of a larger threat, as described in the note.’

‘You have a note? Why withhold it? Let me see it!’ Holmes was irritated.

She withdrew a crumpled piece of paper from her handbag. He squinted at it, then thrust it at me. ‘Here, read this, Watson.’

I did so, aloud.

‘The crowning glory sever’d from the rest.

But only hair and n’er a foot nor toe

The victim or her kin ha’e fouled the nest

And ’tis likely best that she should go

If you heed not this warning and persist

In bedding sichan beauties as yon lass

You may lose something which will be more miss’d

And what you feart the most will come to pass

So at your peril gae about your lives

But notice what and whom you haud most dear

And mind your interests, no less your wives

For if unguarded, may soon disappear

You hae been warned and this should not deny

If tragedies befall you, blame not I.

—A true friend to the McLarens’

‘Hmmm’ said Holmes. ‘This ghost is an amateur poet. A schoolboy Shakespearean sonnet, if not a particularly brilliant one. Scots dialect. Paper common in Scotland and all through the north, calligraphic nib on the pen. Letters formed precisely as if copied from a manual, therefore the writer – who is energetic, note the upstrokes – was disguising his or her handwriting, which is only prudent. While this is marginally interesting, Mrs McLaren, I still believe this to be a domestic issue. Look to whoever was ‘bedding’ the lass, and whoever may be discomfited by this.’

Mrs McLaren drew herself up. ‘I consider what happened an act of violence, Mr Holmes. And the note indicates trouble to come. But I sense that you—’

‘Mrs McLaren. I do not take on cases before there is an actual reason. While the events are somewhat unusual, and certainly cruel, I do not share your degree of alarm. Unless of course, you feel personally threatened in some way? Do you?’

‘I do not.’

‘Madam, then this case is not within my purview. It appears to be a common domestic intrigue, although with outré elements. Good day.’

Holmes leaned back in his chair and stubbed out his cigarette. But Isla McLaren was not to be put off so easily. She took a deep breath and pressed on. ‘Mr Holmes, I have come to you for help,’ she said. ‘Braedern is said to be haunted. There have been unexplained deaths. I have a growing sense of unease which I cannot dispel.’

‘Ghosts again! All right, what unexplained deaths?’

‘Ten years ago, the Lady McLaren, mother of the three sons we discussed, went out in a wild, stormy night to supervise the delivery of a foal which proved to be a false alarm. When she tried to return to the castle, she was locked out and could not enter. She froze to death.’

‘Was there an official investigation? Or did you, Mrs McLaren, play detective?’

‘Mr Holmes, you mock me. Obviously this was before my time, and yes, the police investigated. When Lady McLaren died, some of the servants first saw tracks in the snow indicating someone had tried to enter on the ground floor in several places, broke one window, but could not breach the shutters. Her frozen body was found later, and the laird was inconsolable.’

‘No bell was rung? How was it that no one inside was alerted?’ asked Holmes.

‘The bell apparently malfunctioned. I know no more.’

‘A very cold case, and likely an accident. Why bring this up now?’

‘Since that time her spirit is said to haunt the East Tower – a malevolent spirit that causes harm,’ said the lady.

Holmes sighed.

‘What kind of harm, Mrs McLaren?’ I asked.

‘A servant fell down the stairs to his death last year – pushed, it is said, by this ghost. A child, you see, disappeared from that hall years earlier.’

‘Hmmm, that would be … the laird’s only daughter, Anne. Aged two years and nine months,’ murmured Holmes.

‘None of the servants will enter after dark, now, and I fear—’

‘You do not seem the type to believe in ghosts. What precisely do you want of me, Mrs McLaren?’

‘Perhaps you could investigate and prove that there is nothing—’

Holmes waved this thought away. Mrs McLaren steeled herself and changed course. It would be hard to dissuade this woman, and I admired her fortitude, though I wondered at her persistence. The lady was intriguing.

‘Mr Holmes, ours is a complex family. McLaren whisky is renowned but within the family there is dissension over control. Rivalries.’

‘I have heard of your whisky,’ said I, warmly. ‘“McLaren Top” is quite good, I am told.’

‘Yes. Just last year it was adopted as “the whisky of choice” by the Langham Hotel, among others. There is a great deal of money at stake. We could be considered for a Royal Warrant, but plagued as we are by these legends and fears …’

Holmes sighed. He opened his eyes and gazed fixedly upon the lady.

‘A missing girl who is no longer missing. A note in rhyme with the vaguest of threats. Accidental deaths. Ghosts. And now rivalry among brothers. You are scraping an empty barrel, I sense. Madam, there is nothing for me here. Please close the door as you depart.’

But Mrs McLaren was not finished. ‘Mr Holmes, yesterday I found this in the garden shed.’ She reached into her handbag and withdrew a stick of dynamite and a long fuse.

We froze and I heard a sharp intake of air from my friend.

‘Careful with that, Mrs McLaren!’ said Holmes. ‘Hand it to me, please.’

She made no move to do so, but placing it in her lap, instead withdrew a cigarette from her reticule, and before we could stop her, extracted a vesta from a silver case and lit it.

We both shouted and leapt from our chairs, and Holmes managed to snatch the dynamite away. He pulled back from her and stood a moment, holding it stiffly in the air, uncertain, as any step away from her and her lit match would draw him nearer the fire, or nearer the chemistry table which still sizzled quietly under its moist covering.

‘Relax, gentlemen. It is a dummy. I checked. There is no nitroglycerin in this room – unless it is your own.’ The lady smiled sweetly at us.

Holmes glowered at her.

‘You must admit, it captured your attention,’ said she, lighting her cigarette. She inhaled and blew several small circles towards the ceiling, peering upward through them to view my companion with laughing eyes. ‘As it did mine.’