Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder Page 3

  ‘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.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Rejection


  olmes sighed, sniffed, then examined the dynamite stick. Satisfied, he flung it on a side table.

  ‘Mrs McLaren, you have made your point, albeit more theatrically than necessary. What is so funny, Doctor?’

  I shrugged and he continued.

  ‘Dynamite is the classic tool of the railway builder, the miner, and the anarchist. These appear to be Nobel’s latest type, made in their Scottish factory. What do you think these were doing in this form, wrapped as though filled, and yet not? Dummies, you say. And where exactly did you find them?’

  Mrs McLaren smiled. ‘I have no idea. I found these two dummies, and a cache of what I believe were filled sticks in a tool shed in the back of the kitchen garden. And as to your other question, I have only to guess.’

  ‘Please do not. Guessing is for amateurs. Is there anyone in your family connected to the Scots Separatist movement? To the Russian Revolution? To French anarchists?’ He paused. ‘To the women’s suffrage movement?’

  ‘You have covered a great deal of territory, Mr Holmes. I myself support women’s right to vote as any clear thinker must. But I am not a radical. As to the rest, I could not be certain. Politics are not the primary subject at our family gatherings.’

  ‘What is, then?’

  ‘Money, Mr Holmes. The whisky business. Techniques of distillation, ponies, hunting, local gossip – and ghosts.’

  Holmes sighed. ‘Dynamite is used in clearing lands for new buildings, is it not? And has your distillery been recently enlarged? Is there not a logical reason for dynamite to be present for these uses?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said the lady. ‘But I wonder about the dummies.’

  Silence. Small sounds came from the chemistry table. Holmes’s knee vibrated in impatience.

  ‘Madam,’ he said after a moment. ‘There are many hints of mystery in your various stories, and yet I am afraid I do not see a case for me. Dr Watson will show you out.’

  I will admit my astonishment at this. I thought there was quite enough intrigue presented for several cases! But even more puzzling was Holmes’s rudeness to the lady. While he could on occasion display insensitivity, he was usually the soul of courtesy, especially where women were concerned.

  Mrs McLaren stood abruptly and I rose with her. ‘I can find my way out, Dr Watson,’ she said. She then turned to my companion.

  ‘I am afraid I have wasted your time,’ said the lady. ‘And my own.’

  Mrs McLaren took her leave, and as soon as the front door closed behind her downstairs, I could not contain myself. ‘Holmes! Why do you hesitate? There is so much of interest here! And Mrs McLaren—’

  ‘What? A servant girl has her hair shorn, servants fear ghosts, and some empty dynamite sticks may or may not have been found in a garden shed? By the way, those were not created as dummies. Someone had removed the cordite, for whatever reason. I suspect the lady herself did so, then brought these along to bring out if her other stories failed to get my attention.’

  ‘Holmes, that is an outrageous notion!’

  He shrugged. ‘Do you not think her capable?’

  ‘That is beside the point! She seems far too intelligent and level-headed to resort to such trickery. Did you not find her story, indeed the lady herself, intriguing?’

  ‘No, you found her intriguing. I find her—’

  ‘Utterly fascinating.’

  ‘—provocative. Really, Watson, you must raise your sights.’

  ‘Provocative is not a bad beginning for a case, Holmes.’

  ‘I have decided and that is that. Besides, Mycroft has something for me and I am to meet him in the morning. Would you care to join us? It will most certainly be more interesting than the McLaren imbroglio.’

  ‘Yes, I will come, Holmes. Though I do not understand this decision. Ah, it is freezing in here now.’

  As I moved to close the damaged window, I stole a glance outside. The snow was coming down hard now and the air was growing opaque. But across the way, I saw something that made me stop short.

  ‘Hullo! Your man is in trouble down there!’

  In the deepening shadows, the hulking Butterby was struggling with a tall, well-dressed stranger, who wielded his walking stick like a club. The attacker was clearly at an advantage, and suddenly struck the larger man in the face. Butterby fell back into the shadows.

  Holmes bounded to the window, took one glance and ran for the door shouting, ‘Stay here! On no account come down. Do as I say!’

  In a moment I saw him dash into the snow sans overcoat and dodge the traffic, across Baker Street to where Butterby had arisen and was now locked in combat with his attacker. From the distance I could only discern a gentleman of about our own age, who was fighting with a particularly vicious energy. Butterby was taking a beating as Holmes ran towards them.

  But the attacker sensed his approach, broke free from Butterby and whirling at the last instant aimed a fierce blow at Holmes with his walking stick, striking his shin with a crack I could hear from across the street. Holmes shouted and went down. Two pedestrians nearby fled.

  I was down the stairs and into the street without a thought.

  By the time I reached the trio, Holmes had regained his footing, and the three were struggling on the slippery pavement, the snow swirling wildly about them. Butterby fell and the attacker turned his attention full on Holmes.

  But perceiving my approach and sensing the odds were no longer in his favour, the assailant broke free and started to flee, his camel hair coat billowing behind him. Fate, however, intervened and he suddenly slipped on the icy pavement and fell, striking his head against the base of a lamp post as he went down.

  He lay still. We stood gasping, Butterby still splayed on the curb next to us, holding his head.

  ‘Are you all right, Holmes?’ I shouted over the rising wind.

  ‘Yes, see to that man, Watson,’ Holmes replied, helping Butterby up.

  I turned to the downed attacker. His was a handsome face, chiselled and refined. The eyes remained closed and he was still. I knelt, checking his pulse and his pupils, They were not dilated, a good sign. The wind continued to whip snow around us in a flurry. Holmes and I were without our coats.

  ‘Get him inside,’ I shouted. Holmes hesitated for only a moment, but then nodded.

  With Butterby’s clumsy help, the three of us managed to transport the fellow up to our sitting room, and minutes later, the mysterious attacker was stretched out unconscious on our settee, his hands secured behind him with Butterby’s handcuffs. Holmes grabbed a second pair of cuffs from the mantle and secured his feet to one leg of the settee. I was shivering from my brief exposure to the elements but applied myself to examine the man further. I placed a pillow to raise his head where it had tilted back over the edge of the settee.

  My patient was a tall, well-built fellow. His coat was of the finest Savile Row tailoring, now dirtied and torn from the fight. He had suffered a nasty cut on the forehead, and remained unconscious, but his pulse was strong and regular, his breathing normal. I called down to Mrs Hudson for hot water and towels and blotted the wound with a clean handkerchief and some of Holmes’s clear spirits.

  A silent and glowering Butterby stood like a plinth in the corner of the room. Melting snow dripped from him, splashing lightly onto the rug. He held a dirty handkerchief to a bleeding cut on his cheek and grimaced. I handed him a clean one. Holmes looked up and, finally noticing him, suggested he fetch Lestrade and be quick about it.

  ‘Right-o, then,’ Butterby grunted, and lumbered off. Holmes shook his head in annoyance.

  Our man on the sofa was struggling to regain consciousness. He groaned and his eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, closed, and opened again. I turned to my friend.

  Holmes was pale with exertion and cold, snow still visible on his hair and the shoulders of his dressing gown. He rubbed his shin and grimaced.

  ‘Are you all right, Holmes?’ I asked again.

  ‘It is just a bruise. Our man here has been in training si
nce last we met. I underestimated him. What is the damage?’

  ‘You know him, then?’

  ‘The damage, Watson?’

  ‘He will live. I would ask for brandy, but—’

  ‘Here, give him some of this. My best whisky, though he hardly merits it.’ He handed over a bottle. McLaren Top!

  I held the drink to the assailant’s lips, supporting his head. He squinted and took in his surroundings and then suddenly jerked his limbs only to discover his restraints. With a splutter he pulled away from the drink, but clipped it with his chin and several drops spilled over his damaged coat.

  He shook his head to focus and suddenly noticed Holmes standing above him. He emitted a deep-throated cry and jolted violently towards me. Struggling against his bonds he began making a series of strange, garbled sounds.

  ‘Now that is a waste of perfectly good Scotch, St John,’ said Holmes. ‘Not to mention you have further damaged your rather fine coat. I see you have retained your excellent taste in tailoring.’

  ‘How do you know this man?’ I asked.

  ‘It is a very long story,’ said my friend, his voice strained.

  Another set of unintelligible sounds emerged from the fellow. Turning to stare at him I discovered why. As he continued to make noises, I remarked in horror that the man had lost his tongue! The wound was not recent. There was not a trace of blood, just a dark space where a tongue would rest.

  St John glowered.

  Holmes turned to me. ‘This is Mr Orville St John. A distinguished member of the St Johns of Northumberland, titled landowners, enormously wealthy from their logging endeavours. We were undergraduates together at Camford. Shall I tell Dr Watson what happened there, St John?’

  The man said nothing.

  ‘I shall presume that was a yes. Mr St John and an equally well-placed friend, both of whom enjoyed great prestige at Camford, took top honors in mathematics and chemistry, until I arrived upon the scene and began to prevail. A prize or two, the favour of a famous professor, and suddenly I was, to them, some kind of nemesis, an object of both envy and derision.’

  I noticed St John staring with vehement anger at my friend.