Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder. Bonnie Macbird
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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