‘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.’
‘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