The Lammas Curse Page 4

  Gasping for breath, he had apologized profusely, inventing a story about a traffic jam caused by a collision of hansoms, but the truth of it was he had been perusing the contents of a letter he had received that morning from Mr Mycroft Holmes and had lost track of time.

  Porters jostled to take charge of her luggage in order to get it all on board before the doors to the carriages slammed shut. Steam billowed from the funnel, cloaking the platform in bilious white fumes that seemed to choke off the last bit of oxygen as he gasped for breath, carting his own baggage, including his trusty old golf clubs, when he broke into a fit of violent coughing and plunged his hand into his pocket for his handkerchief whilst dodging porters, passengers, dogs on leashes, children who should have been, and a veritable booby-trap of bags. Alas, it was an ill-wind that whipped his handkerchief along with the letter out of his hand. He whirled back and the inevitable happened. Luggage clattered to the ground and golf clubs spilled like matchsticks in all directions.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he blathered, scanning the platform for the precious piece of paper.

  “You stupid old man!” rebuked the young woman he had crashed into. “You should not have stopped so suddenly and spun round like that!”

  “Yes, yes, you are perfectly right,” he muttered apologetically, reddening and coughing at the same time. “I wasn’t thinking…my letter…oh, never mind…are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she snapped, “no thanks to you! But my new clubs! I’ve only just purchased them and they cost a fortune! If they are damaged you will be hearing from me! In the event I need to contact you, you can give your particulars to my brother,” she directed haughtily, fixing him with a pair of eyes so preternaturally cold and blue they burned like ice as she secured her lopsided hat back into position, drawing his attention to a tight crop of platinum blonde, poodle curls which rather suited her because everything about her reminded him of the yappy pampered poodle that had almost ruined his summer vacation at the Hotel du Palais in Biarritz.

  Porters rushed to retrieve the scattered clubs. A young man, foppishly dressed, standing to one side, grudgingly doled out some tips then turned to take the doctor’s particulars. The doctor also tipped the porters then extracted a card and handed it to the person he assumed to be the brother - exceedingly tall, long limbed and rakishly thin. His sun-tanned hand shook as he held it out to receive the doctor’s card which he then shoved into the pocket of his frock coat without even casting a cursory glance.

  “If you should need to speak to me further,” grovelled Dr Watson, mopping his sweaty brow, “you will find me in compartment number eleven. I will be happy to recompense your sister for any damage.”

  “Yes, yes,” dismissed the young man scornfully, arrogantly waving away the porters who arrived belatedly, hoping to cash in on misfortune. He had the same crinkly crop of platinum curls as his sister, and the same pale blue eyes, as cold as Arctic ice. The doctor felt their chill long after the young man directed them elsewhere.

  A shrill whistle sounded above the skirr of bag pipes. Plumes of white smoke thickened, swirled and swallowed up the last of the passengers. The platinum duo clambered aboard as the guard swished his red flag like a matador goading a metallic monster to charge full speed ahead. Dr Watson was still scanning the platform for his letter when he heard the Countess’s voice above the din.

  “Hurry! You will miss the train!”

  Through a gap in the choking clouds he could see a porter hand a folded piece of paper through the open window to the dandified poodle in car number seven. There was no time to act - just react. He grabbed his bags, made a frantic dash for his carriage and leapt aboard just as the train jerked and the engine chugged and the heavy iron wheels began to roll.

  “What on earth were you doing mooching about on the platform till the last moment?” chided the Countess as he fell back into his seat, panting. “I almost left without you!”

  “I dropped something,” he returned evasively, wondering how he was going to get his letter back. He knew for certain it was his letter because the ecru paper had been folded into quarters, the same as the letter he had hurriedly stuffed into the pocket of his tweed jacket.

  “Nothing valuable, I hope?”

  “No, no,” he replied, though value was a purely relative term. The letter was actually extremely valuable as far as he was concerned. Would he ever get to finish reading it? And why did the young man accept it from the porter? He hoped there was nothing incriminating in it, nothing that would reflect badly on the Countess, nothing that would render Mycroft open to accusations of abusing his high office.

  “You look worried,” the Countess persisted. “Are you sure it wasn’t valuable? What was it anyway?”

  “Just a letter,” he dismissed, managing a smile that was as unconvincing as the dismissal. He decided to change the subject and experience told him that trite conversation about the weather or the geography of Scotland would never do. This diversion called for something meaty with a good bit of gristle attached.

  “I went to see Mr Mycroft Holmes the other evening and mentioned that you expressed a desire to meet him.”

  “You make it sound so business-like. I am his niece. Of course I would like to meet him. I have numerous step-cousins, step-aunts and step-uncles, but he is the closest thing to real family that I have in the world. I would like very much to meet him. I have tried to contact him several times but he is more elusive than the ghost of Sherlock Holmes. He doesn’t even appear to have a home address. I understand he is a member of the Diogenes Club but that is all I know. Is that where you met him – at his club?”

  “Yes,” admitted Dr Watson before resolving to exercise caution, wincing inwardly at her choice of phrase - Sherlock’s ghost. What did he really know about the young woman who claimed to be Sherlock’s daughter and whom he had met for the first time less than a month ago? Until he finished reading that letter from Mycroft he had best heed the advice to remain prudent, not so much to safeguard himself, but to avoid endangering a ghost, not to mention exposing Mycroft Holmes, a man who clearly valued his privacy, to unforeseen happenstance. “Mycroft Holmes recently moved premises,” he added truthfully before resorting to falsehood. “He used to reside in Pall Mall but I’m not sure where he lives now. Sherlock hardly ever talked about his brother and I only met him a handful of times. His work keeps him busy.”

  “What work does he do?” she quizzed with an inflected tone. “I hired a private detective to discover whatever he could, but he was clearly not in the same league as Sherlock Holmes. After three months he came back with such scant information I felt quite cheated and was tempted to quibble over his fee.”

  “I’m not really sure what he does. Sherlock once described his brother as auditing government accounts, but I got the impression he was not really sure either.”

  “How curious! Sherlock was an open book, right down to his cocaine addiction, yet Uncle Mycroft is a complete mystery. He could well end up like those people who die in their own bed and whose bodies are not discovered for years and years because no one misses them.”

  “Mmm,” murmured the doctor, deciding not to contradict his companion, though he was of the opposite opinion. He thought that if Mycroft failed to turn up for breakfast one morning at the Diogenes Club, the Horse Guards would be sent out immediately to track him down. Heaven help him if he ever overslept!

  “Well?” she prompted. “What did Uncle Mycroft say? When are we to meet?”

  “As I said, he is extremely busy. He said he would get back to me as soon as he could find the time.” Her lips drooped and he tried it make it up to her. “Mycroft and I discussed the golf tournament.”

  “And?” she prompted, glancing out of the window as the locomotive began to chug up Camden Hill.

  “Well,” he sighed, pausing for breath, not quite knowing where to start as there seemed so many different starting points – fair play, foul play, fear and superstition, spirits, witches, and vau
lting ambition. “He said there is more to the three deaths than meets the eye, for instance…” and so he recalled the conversation as best he could. He was still going when they said goodbye to London town and hello to Harrow. He finally drew breath for the first time when they entered the Watford Tunnel and pitch darkness gave pause for thought. When they emerged once again into dazzling daylight and the chalky Chilterns, both were still contemplating how they might tackle the days ahead. Stations whizzed past – Boxmoor, Berkhamstead, Tring - and then came another tunnel - the Linslade - followed by more stations - Wolverton and Castlethorpe and Blisworth. They had been travelling for more than an hour.

  After Kilsby Tunnel they might have been forgiven for thinking they had crossed into a different country. There were fewer church spires poking up between clusters of trees, and more barren tracts dominated by coal mines and manufactories. The sun disappeared behind an umbrella of grey clouds that never lifted.

  At midday they decided some lunch was in order but so had all the other first class passengers. A tidy queue had formed at the entrance to the dining car. A few passengers had opted to wait until the second sitting and were enjoying an aperitif in the saloon car, especially those travelling in larger groups who preferred not to be split up. A maître d’ was ushering those waiting in the queue to vacant seats. There were two double vacancies. The first was a banquette for two at a table with an American couple whose distinctive New York twangs could be heard above the quietude of the dining car. They were conversing knowledgably about a current West End play and looked as if they had just stepped out of a John Singer Sargent painting. They would have made a perfect pairing for the doctor and the Countess and the maître d’ clearly thought so too. He began ushering them along when the Countess spotted the other double vacancy at the far end of the dining car. The two people seated at this table had their backs to the door, but the Countess recognized them by their platinum curls and decided to engineer a meeting. She tapped the maître d’ on the shoulder and adopted a bothersome tone.

  “Oh, dear,” she whispered fretfully, lying through her teeth. “That American is my ex-husband’s cousin and the woman with him is my ex-brother-in-law’s ex-wife. I cannot possibly be seated at the same table. It would be too, too, too ghastly – a terrible scene, and all that. If it is not too much trouble, could my companion and I be seated elsewhere?”

  The maître d’ looked terrified at having to deal with anything ghastly that might lead to a terrible scene and nodded toward the saloon car. “If madame and her companion would care to take an aperitif, I will ensure that the first available table for the second sitting is reserved.”

  “Oh, no,” she pouted unhappily, lifting a limp wrist to her forehead, “that would never do. I had no time for breakfast this morning and I feel quite light-headed. I’m afraid if food does not pass my lips soon I will simply faint right here on this very spot.” She looked meaningfully at the narrow passage and began to sway.

  The maître d’ looked even more terrified. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow. He used the linen napkin draped over his arm to mop his face.

  “What about that vacant seat at the end of the car?” supplied the Countess, looking past a sagging shoulder, drooping under the weight of responsibility and elaborate epaulets.

  Rallying himself, the maître d’ stiffened his back before ushering the Countess and the doctor to the end of the car, gliding swiftly past the American couple. But Dr Watson grabbed her arm none too gently.

  “What are you playing at?” he hissed under his breath. “Are you mad! Don’t you recognise the poodle hair? That is the woman I had the altercation with earlier!”

  She angled her head and whispered over her shoulder. “There is method in my madness, mon ami. I do recognize her even if you do not. Follow my lead and pas de gaffe!”

  The maître d’ came to an abrupt halt at the end of the dining car. “Pardon me,” he addressed cringingly to the poodle pair, “I am aware that you requested to be seated at your own table but Company policy prohibits diners being turned away if any seats remain unoccupied.”

  The platinum twins were about to vent their opinion regarding Company policy when the Countess took charge.

  “Enchante,” she gushed, slipping fluidly into the banquette, “I hope we are not disturbing you. But what can one do? These dining cars are so frightfully cramped, never large enough. Let me introduce myself - Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna,” she trilled with conceit, “and my travelling companion, Dr John Watson.”

  Dr Watson followed her cue wearing a stiff-upper-lip smile. But all seemed forgiven. The young lady was no longer glaring daggers, though one glance from the Arctic blue eyes could still freeze the marrow in his bones. He felt an involuntary shiver as he acknowledged the two people on the opposite side of the table with a sheepish nod of his head.

  “I’m Miss Catherine Dee,” responded the young woman crisply, “and this is my brother, Mr Carter Dee.”

  The penny dropped clunkily! Wards of Lord Cruddock!

  “I hope your clubs are all right,” muttered Dr Watson – no wonder the Countess had engineered to sit at their table! He had thought for a moment she was merely trying to exacerbate his humiliation. “I apologise unreservedly. I dropped something and…oh, never mind.”

  “My clubs are fine,” dismissed Miss Dee with disdainful affability, “and your apology is accepted providing you forgive my rudeness, but, well, I was so worried about my new clubs.”

  “Quite understandable,” Dr Watson said with a tepid smile that would never grow more than lukewarm under the icy stare. To avoid looking into her eyes he stared at the white shingle hair. She must have been born minus the attribute that determines pigmentation. She could have passed for albino but for the pale blue eyes, the same for her twin brother.

  The dining car had all the hallmarks of an exclusive London restaurant, but the menu was not a la carte and the courses were promptly served so as not to delay the second sitting. White wine arrived just as the train chugged to the top of Whitmore Hill and the stilted conversation seemed to register the strain but lo and behold just as the engine reached the summit and began the smooth descent to the Cheshire Plain so the last vestige of awkwardness seemed to drop away and conversation began to flow freely.

  “Is this what you dropped?” said Mr Dee, extracting a paper from the pocket of his frock coat as some leek and potato soup made an appearance.

  Dr Watson was stunned and clearly showed it. “Yes, yes, it is,” he stammered as the young man handed over his letter, hand slightly shaky. “How ever did you know it was mine?”

  “I saw something flutter from your pocket as you spun round, but, what with the mayhem that followed, I forgot all about it, but just after we boarded I spotted the porter picking something up. I pretended it was mine and he handed it through the window. There was no time to send him to carriage number eleven.”

  Dr Watson gratefully pocketed his little treasure. “You must let me pay for lunch.”

  “That is not necessary,” said Miss Dee, dispensing a tight smile while buttering a bread roll with a firm and steady hand.

  “I insist,” argued Dr Watson. “I will not take no for an answer. I thought my letter was lost forever and now here it is. I am most grateful.”

  “This letter sounds quite valuable,” laughed the brother, slapping butter onto his roll with the dexterity of a clumsy child. “What is it? State secrets? Investment tips? A formula for turning metal into gold!”

  “Oh, shut up, Carter!” snapped his sister. “You can be such a fool!”

  “And you can be such a bore!” he snapped back.

  The sister flashed her brother a chilling reprimand before turning amiably to the Countess and turning on a much friendlier smile. “You must forgive us. We are a bit nerve-wracked at the moment. We are about to compete in an important tournament.”

  “The golf tournament at Lammermoor?” confirmed the Countess.

  “Yes, how ever did you gu
ess?”

  “When you introduced yourselves I recognized your names from a newspaper article I read, oh, about a week ago now, but I thought the tournament had been halted?”

  “It had been halted,” supplied the brother, steadying his hand, “but we received a telegram yesterday in London telling us that it is now going ahead as planned so we are hurrying back to Scotland.”

  “No wonder your nerves are on edge. It must be wretchedly thrilling to play in such an important tournament,” observed the Countess without sounding even slightly condescending, “and you both look so young for such a world class competition.”

  “We have always looked young for our age,” replied the sister. “It’s the whitish hair and the pale blue eyes and babyish faces. We are actually both twenty-five.”

  “You are one day older,” reminded the brother, looking meaningfully at his sibling. “You were born just before midnight and I was born just after.”

  “A few hours the difference,” dismissed the sister curtly before turning to the doctor. “Do you play golf, Dr Watson?”

  “Indeed I do and since we will be staying near to where the tournament is being held I am looking forward to picking up some handy pointers that may improve my game.”

  “Oh,” she said in an interested monotone as the waiter came to clear the soup bowls, “Where will you be staying?”