Chapter Six
Lady Natasha Dorrington’s Residence,
Grosvenor Square
n the distance, the chimes of the Tower Clock could faintly be heard tolling 1:30 in the morning. Tasha, in a Hansom cab with Ramsgate, noted that her house was—as to be expected at this hour—darkened, save for a light burning in the sitting room—the room she used as an office. She peeked over at Ramsgate, fast asleep beside her, and nudged him. “Wake up. Open those eyes,” she teased. He groggily responded. “I’m inviting you in,” said Mother with a glimmer in her eye.
Ramsgate snapped wide awake.
“There is a client in the study.”
His enthusiasm faltered and he exited the Hansom with a resigned sigh. “Of course. I might have known.”
Tasha struck a match and surveyed the footprints leading to her front door. “Aha! Medium height, heavy build … and if he’s planted in my study at this hour of the morning, exceedingly desperate to see me.”
She opened the door and they entered. Tasha took Ramsgate’s overcoat and hat to a clothes tree already occupied by another overcoat dressed with a warm wool collar, a battered tweed hat, and walking stick. She carefully analysed them with both eye and hand.
“Discover any other interesting facts about him?” asked Ramsgate keenly.
“Only that he tends sheep in Scotland and arrived in London at ten at Euston Station.”
“How do you know that? A speck of dust? A suggestive bit of mud?”
“The ticket is in his pocket.”
“You really are insufferable.”
“Let’s not keep him waiting. He has grey hair, is unmarried, at one time had money but has it no longer, and owns a large dog. I suspect a collie.”
In Tasha’s study sat a dour looking, heavy-set man of about fifty. He tallied completely with Mother’s observations. Observations which she took delight in sharing with him—a technique used to impress clients. He bolted from the stiff-backed wooden chair, his pipe nearly falling from his mouth, and in a thick Scot accent, “How did you ken aw’ that about me? You must be a bana-bhuidseach!” He noted Ramsgate’s confusion. “A witch!”
“It’s a petty masculine conceit to attribute a woman’s intelligence to the supernatural,” answered Mother.
Tasha and Ramsgate sat across from the man—he gave his name as McGloury—in plush leather chairs in front of the fireplace. Mother arranged the seating so that she’d be backlit, making her difficult for McGloury to see while illuminating him for her. By McGloury’s feet was a large, inexpensive, canvas travelling bag.
“I cannae think of a natural way you’d know so much about a stranger!” he protested.
Ramsgate couldn’t suppress a grin. “You’ll be sorry you asked.”
Tasha leaned back in her chair with the air of ennui and sighed—as if the explanations weren’t worth the effort. “Your coat contained traces of raw wool, hence sheep. Though you haven’t been at it long, have you?”
McGloury bristled from his chair. “It’s witchcraft!”
“It’s your hands. City hands. Tender hands that have never sheared sheep or wielded an axe. A few seasons out in the elements and those hands will be your farmer’s uniform. One can read so much from hands.”
“Simple, isn’t it?” shrugged Ramsgate.
McGloury, despite being a hard-headed Scot, considered his discomfort, “She cogitates a wee bit over fast for me … But, go on.”
Tasha obliged him. It was all part of her “you’re in good hands” performance. “You wear a very expensive hat, indicating affluence. It is long out of fashion and in dire want of repair. Money, I may safely assume, is presently scarce. The shocking accumulation of dust on the hat decrees the bachelor. No good Scot wife would allow it. Have I omitted anything?”
“The dog?”
“Oh, yes. Teeth marks on your walking stick. Now, Mr. Cedric McGloury, as you fear for your life …”
He grunted, “Aye. That’s true enough. Something is trying to kill me.”
Mother stopped him. “Something? Please be precise. Melodramatic inferences are of little help.”
“D’ye believe in the power of demons?”
“No.”
McGloury nodded, and then gave Tasha a hard grin. “Neither did I until three months ago. I inherited a wee croft. What you Sassenachs call a farm, from my older brother, Rupert. I’ve always wanted to settle down on a croft, raise sheep, so I moved in.”
“Were sheep part of the inheritance?”
“I dinnae make myself clear, lass.”
Mother’s eyebrows arched at being called a lass—but she did not interrupt him.
“Rupert dinnae live on the croft,” McGloury went on. “No one in my clan has for generations. Though we’ve held title for as far back as there were such things as titles.”
“Why has no one lived there?”
“I dinnae ken, but we’ve tenanted the place as long as anyone remembers.”
Tasha closed her eyes, mulling it over, and then asked. “Where is this demon-infested croft?”
“On Millport Island.”
“In the Firth of Clyde, near Glasgow?”
McGloury nodded. Both men were impressed with Mother’s grasp of geography. Tasha raised her hand before they could speak to ask McGloury, “The problem?”
McGloury took a breath, not sure how to put it, then simply stated, “I think I’m the victim of a curse. My sheep break out of the pen, no matter the precautions I take, and dash themselves over the cliff.”
Tasha sank back in her chair, disappointed. Still, there must be more than this. Ramsgate gestured and gave a cursory laugh. “Well, that hardly sounds diabolical.”
“You mentioned demons, Mr. McGloury,” reminded Mother.
“Aye. Near my cottage are ruins, ancient cult ruins over a thousand years old, I’m told. The kind of place where the old ways still fester. Last night, in the middle of them, I saw a banshee.”
Ramsgate smiled, but Tasha raised a warning eyebrow. To his surprise, she was taking this ghost story seriously. Ramsgate wasn’t convinced and asked, “Isn’t a banshee rather misplaced in Scotland?”
Tasha responded before McGloury could reply. “The western Scottish islands and Ireland share a common folklore in many instances. So you know the meaning of the banshee, Mr. McGloury?”
“Aye,” he said seriously. “Death’s herald.”
Ramsgate, the very personification of practical and rational, blurted, “Oh, really! This is the limit, Tasha! The fellow’s got a wizard imagination, but …”
McGloury raised his hand to silence Ramsgate, and then reached into his canvas travelling bag. “Aye, Mr. Ramsgate, but tell me …” He pulled out a large, cloth-covered object. “Did I imagine this?”
He dramatically whipped the cloth cover away, revealing the severed head of a goat. Ramsgate was repulsed, but Mother’s eyes gleamed with excitement. She was delighted.
“That’s wonderful!” She couldn’t restrain herself. As McGloury bristled in protest, she motioned him back to his seat. “I mean, that’s certainly interesting. A ritualistic sacrifice. Note the left to right incision. How often has this happened?”
McGloury regarded Mother in satisfaction, pleased that his problem intrigued her. “The sheep? Three nights at a time for the last two weeks.”
“… but the dead goat and the banshee?”
“Only the night before last.”
Tasha’s mind raced. “When, to the best of your memory, did the last McGloury occupy this croft?”
McGloury scratched his head doubtfully. “That’s a wee bit’ve history, now … must’ve been back to Charles the First … sixteen hundreds …”
Tasha nodded and sat for several seconds, eyes closed, legs extended, fingers and palms together, oblivious to all. McGloury started to speak, but Ramsgate stopped him, pressing his finger to his lip as a warning. They waited in silence until Mother opened her eyes and walked to the window. Outside, the yellow orb of the streetlamp was just visible through the fog. Tasha stared at it, and mused, “If this danger is beyond nature, it is also beyond me.” She turned back to McGloury. “However, I’ll exhaust all other possibilities before admitting to hobgoblins. I’ll accept your case, Mr. McGloury.”
McGloury grinned, but it quickly faded. “I dinnae inherit much money. As you … deduced, my means are modest.”
“My fee is modest enough for your life,” answered Tasha coolly.
“That’s if you succeed.”
“I never fail, Mr. McGloury,” Mother said with passion. “I’ve gained acceptance in a masculine occupation because I succeed where all others fail. I am the final court of appeal!” She stopped abruptly, surprised at her own outburst. Then she gave McGloury a pale smile. “If I fail, you won’t be alive to pay me.”
McGloury leaned back, not liking the sound of that.