The Lammas Curse Read Online Free PDF Page B

the
black stain on Scottish history and the horrible suffering
inflicted on so many innocent souls, but I don’t see the connection
to the three deaths.”
    “Some details were officially
suppressed to avoid superstitious panic.”
    Dr Watson gulped the dregs of
his coffee and carefully replaced his cup and saucer on the
butler’s tray. “Please go on,” he said, his interest in the case
rising above and beyond its connection to his Scottish roots.
    “The first deceased, Chuck
Fitzalan, was found with his left hand splayed out and the two
middle fingers missing. At first it appeared as if they had been
cut off. But there was no blood apart from the head injury. The
fingers were merely bent back in the classic horned god pose.”
    “Deliberate or…I was going to
say coincidental but I must wean myself off that word! Who
was the first person on the scene?”
    “Two people - Lars Larsenssen
and Bruce Bancoe. They are a player-pair and decided to also
acquaint themselves with the course when they spotted the American
setting off to explore the links prior to breakfast. They quickly
finished their own breakfast and followed about twenty minutes
after the American. Mr Fitzalan was a left-hander and they noticed
straight away that his golfing hand looked odd. Try it,” invited
Mycroft. “Bend your two middle fingers under.”
    “I see what you mean. It
doesn’t feel natural. The knuckles protrude if you try to make the
whole of the fingers disappear.”
    “Even more so if your hand is
resting on the ground. It was discovered later that the knuckles
were broken, as if someone had trod on his hand rather brutally to
flatten if out.”
    “So much for the notion of
coincidence – an important lesson to learn before I travel to
Scotland! What about death number two, the Italian?”
    “Mr Sforza - found floating
face down in what amounted to not much more than a large puddle -
was not alone in the water. Tangled in the bull rushes was also a
cat – drowned.”
    Dr Watson’s eyebrows expressed
incredulity. “A moggy drowning in a puddle is most unlikely. I
presume it was a black cat?”
    Mycroft nodded approvingly.
“You are starting to get the picture.”
    Encouraged, the doctor’s brain
hurried ahead. “That brings us to number three.”
    “A corn dolly was found
dangling from the tree that had decided to drop its limb at the
exact same time that Mr Lancaster had decided to relieve
himself.”
    “Mmm, I see,” murmured the
doctor, rubbing the unshaven chin which was showing the early
makings of a beard, “the picture grows clearer.”
    “Or becomes more obscure,”
countered Mycroft judiciously. “Are these murders about vaulting
ambition – winning the tournament at all costs by eliminating the
competition – or are they about shutting down the golf course by
foul means not fair – pointing the finger at some harmless old
women by stirring the cauldron of superstition and fear? When are
you intending to leave for Scotland?”
    “I have reserved a private
smoker on The Royal Scot for the Countess and myself for the end of
this week, plus two second class seats for her maid and manservant.
She never travels without them. I have not yet decided whether they
are Ukrainian Cossacks or Bolshevik provocateurs.”
    Mycroft’s brows lifted, a sign
that he was processing this last bit of information with heightened
interest. “Where are you planning to stay?”
    “The Countess owns an old peel
tower at the southern end of Loch Maw. It may be a crumbling ruin.
It belonged to her late aunt. She has never seen it. If it turns
out to be uninhabitable we will take rooms at the Marmion Hydro
Hotel.”
    “Are you acquainted with Lord
Cruddock?”
    Dr Watson shook his head.
    “I will let his lordship know
you are holidaying in the area and that you enjoy a game of golf.
It will serve as an introduction. He’s an Oxford man, not too
high-brow, a couple of thirds, but a first class sportsman and a
keen shot. The