with a slow stretch and then in a sudden movement vaulting over the back of his low chair as if on springs. Arriving at the bookcase, he ran his finger along several volumes of his filed notes, pulled down one and rifled through it.
‘Ah, McLaren. Whisky baron. Member of Parliament. Working at the time of this article to establish business in London. Effectively, it appears. A Tory. Unusual for a Scot. Widower. Late wife very wealthy. And, ah, yes. Go on.’
He returned with the file and draped himself once more in the chair.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He is my father-in-law.’
‘Obviously. It says here a daughter who did not survive infancy, and three sons.’
‘You are not au courant. Two sons survive. The eldest, Donal, died three years ago, killed during the siege of Khartoum.’
‘You are married to one of the remaining sons. Not Charles, the current eldest, but Alistair, the younger.’
Mrs McLaren smiled. ‘That is correct, Mr Holmes. And how did you deduce this?’
I did not like Holmes’s regard. ‘Madam, how can we help you?’ I said.
But the lady persisted. ‘Mr Holmes?’ she wondered.
‘It is obvious. Your ring. Lady McLaren’s famous amethyst and emerald engagement ring – I have a clipping here on its history – matches your dress perfectly and would surely be on your hand if you had married the elder son. The rest of your jewellery is quite modest. Therefore the younger son.’
The lady put a hand to her small gold brooch from which dangled a charm. Along with a simple wedding band and gold earrings this was the sum total of her jewellery. She smiled.
‘Regarding my jewellery, perhaps I am simply not in the habit of overt display, Mr Holmes. Rather like yourself.’ Her eyes flicked to his dressing gown.
‘Nevertheless?’ Holmes said. She remained silent. Her silence was a tacit acknowledgment. He smiled to himself, then he got up and moved back to the fireplace, making rather a fuss over his pipe. It struck me that she simultaneously disturbed him in some way, and at the same time incited those tendencies which I can only describe as showing off.
‘I have come to London to attend the opera, see my dressmaker, and to do a little Christmas shopping,’ she began. ‘While I was here, I thought—’
‘On second thought, I have heard enough, Mrs McLaren.’
‘Good grief, Holmes! Madam, I beg your forgiveness,’ said I. ‘Please do relate your concerns. We are all ears.’
Before she could answer, Holmes barked out, ‘Your husband either is, or you imagine he is, having an affair. I do not deal in marital squabbles. Kindly close the door behind you.’ He moved sharply away to a bookcase and stood there, his back to her.
She remained seated.
Holmes paused and turned around. ‘Really, madam, I beg you. What would your family think of this visit?’
‘It matters little what my family might think of my visit. I am quite on my own in this matter. Your opinions, while incorrect, are of moderate interest. Do enlighten me as to your train of thought.’
She had opened Pandora’s box. ‘Madam, mine are not opinions, but facts,’ he began in his didactic manner.
‘Go on,’ said she.
‘Holmes!’
‘If you insist. You have recently lost weight. For you, this may be considered beneficial. I observe that your dress has been taken in by a less than professional hand. However, something has changed. You have had your hair elaborately done and now are buying new clothes. The latest fashions are little valued in the Highlands, rather the opposite, and it is too cold for most of them. You are either having an affair here – but not likely as you are wearing your wedding ring – or trying to remake yourself to be more attractive to your husband. The jewellery I have explained. Now please, go away.’
‘You are wrong on several counts, Mr Holmes, but right on two,’ said she. ‘I do wish to make myself as attractive as possible. For women, it is sadly our main, although transient, source of power. Perhaps that may change some day. And yes, Alistair is my husband.’
Holmes sighed. ‘Of course.’
‘However I have not lost weight, this dress has always been too large, and I have fashioned my hair myself. I shall take both errors as compliments.’
Holmes nodded curtly.
‘Why, Mr Holmes, do you have such disdain for women? And what is that smell? Never mind. I wish to get to business. I am here to consult you on a case. I see that you are a bit low on funds, so perhaps you had better hear me out.’
Holmes exhaled sharply. ‘Pray be brief, then, madam. What exactly is puzzling you?’
‘One moment, Mrs McLaren,’ said I. ‘What makes you think Mr Holmes is in need of funds? Surely you are aware of several of our recent cases which have reached the news.’
‘Yes, and I do look forward to your full accounts of them, Dr Watson.’
Just then a sharp noise came from under the wet cloth and it suddenly slid off Holmes’s chemistry table. Holmes leapt to replace the blanket over the crude homemade still but not before the lady had a clear look.
‘An experiment,’ said Holmes sharply. ‘Will you not tell us your problem?’
She appraised him with cool eyes. ‘In a moment, sir. First I will answer Dr Watson. I see clearly that Mr Holmes requires cash. He has recently had his boots resoled instead of buying new. His hair is badly in need of a barber’s attentions. And his waistcoat, trousers, and dressing gown should be laundered, and soon. This does not fit with your description of Mr Holmes. He is either despondent or conserving money. His spirit bottles on the sideboard are empty, and he is rather ridiculously attempting to refill them with homemade spirits. Therefore the latter, most likely.’
‘It is a chemical experiment,’ snapped Holmes. ‘If you require my assistance, please state your case now.’
Isla McLaren reclined in her chair and flashed a small smile at me.
‘There have been a series of strange incidents in and around Braedern Castle,’ said she. ‘I cannot connect them and yet I feel somehow they are linked. I also sense a growing danger. Braedern Castle, as you may know if it appears in your files Mr Holmes, is reputed to be haunted.’
‘Every castle in Scotland is said to be haunted. You Scots are very fond of your ghosts and your faeries.’
‘I did not say that I thought that ghosts were at work. Quite a few of my fellow Scots demonstrate the capacity for rational thought, Mr Holmes. For instance, James Clerk Maxwell, James Watt, Mary Somerville …’
‘Yes, yes, the namesake of your college at Oxford. I see the charm dangling from your brooch, Mrs McLaren.’
Oxford! Isla McLaren grew in stature before my eyes. Somerville College for women was highly regarded, and the young ladies who attended were thought to be among the brightest in the Empire.
‘As I was saying, our small country has contributed a disproportionate number of geniuses in mathematics, medicine and engineering.’
Holmes at last took a seat and faced her, his aspect suddenly altered. ‘I cannot contradict you, Mrs McLaren,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. Let us address your problem.’
Mrs McLaren took a deep breath and regarded my friend for a moment, as if trying to decide something. ‘There have been a series of curious events at Braedern. Perhaps the strangest is this. Not long ago, a young parlour maid disappeared from the estate under unusual circumstances.’
‘Go on,’ said Holmes, as he opened and once again began to flip through the file.
‘Fiona Paisley is her name. She