y the grace of God Moray returned in time with a rope and four men. We found strong hooks on the walls and tied the ropes to them. I insisted on being first into the pit, one rope laced like a harness around my chest, a second in my hand, and a lantern gripped between my teeth.
It was a perilous descent but at last I stood on something solid, if terribly slick. I held up the lantern to send the feeble light around the pit. I quickly spotted the shadowy and macabre limbs of the two bodies Holmes had found, protruding upwards from the grey moonscape of the mounded ice. But where was Holmes?
I continued in a circle until I saw my poor friend, huddled over at one edge of the pit, and curled into a ball, his hands in tight fists. ‘Holmes!’ I cried out. He did not respond.
I lunged towards him and slipped on the treacherous surface, tumbling onto to the sharp edges of the ice rocks and bruising my ribs.
With difficulty I righted myself and clambered towards his unconscious form. I felt for a pulse. It was faint and his breathing was shallow. I managed to fasten my second rope around his waist and under his arms, and called up to the men above.
‘Hurry,’ I shouted. ‘Raise him now! We are losing him!’
In the dim light of my lantern, I saw the rope tighten and his body began to lift from the ice, out of my hands and up into the darkness above me, silhouetted against the lantern light above. As he drew away from me I saw three pale faces lit from above peering down at us. Suddenly the depth of the coldness struck me in a wave of almost unimaginable pain. How had he endured nearly thirty minutes down here?
‘We have him,’ came a voice from above. Thank God.
Then I, too, was raised from the pit and once on solid ground, rushed to attend my friend, shivering myself as I did so. While the others pulled the two corpses from the pit, it was the live victim upon whom I concentrated. Holmes had indeed been doused with water, and in the brighter light of the rescuers’ lanterns I saw that his clothes were eerily rigid, two thirds covered with a thin layer of crisp, new white ice. I wrapped him in blankets, listened to his faint heartbeat and began to help lash him to one of the sledges.
I stared down at the noble face, white and still. Had we pulled him out in time?
Meanwhile, the two frozen corpses, including the headless body of the poor lass, had been raised out by the others. The second body, as one might have predicted, was Ualan’s Moray’s missing son, Iain.
I headed up the hill towards the castle with Holmes’s still figure on the sledge beside me.
We were let into the kitchen area and quickly shown to a large room – a secondary food preparation room off the main kitchen which had an enormous fire at one end and an oven at the other. While I propped Holmes up in a chair near the fire and sent for fresh clothes from his room, two large oak tables in the centre of the room were cleared. There, the strongest servants, horrified but stalwart, placed the two bodies, which arrived shortly after we did.
Holmes was barely breathing. Under my direction, we moved him briefly into the pantry, and after my quick inspection for frostbite, dried him thoroughly and changed him into warm, fresh clothes brought down by Mungo. He remained unconscious during this, his right fist clenched like a rock, and I could not open it to examine his fingers for frostbite. I had to let it go and moved him back to the second kitchen.
His pulse gained strength as I enlisted the aid of two scullery maids to bring additional warm blankets and wrap him in them. I called for hot water bottles, tested their temperature, and placed one under each armpit, one on his stomach, another on his lap. Minutes later, I moved him back into the larger room, near, but not too close to the fire. We would have to be careful with this process because warming a frozen body too quickly could kill.
My doctor’s bag having been brought down, I took his temperature and listened to his heart. A fatal arrhythmia could occur at any time during the rewarming, and because of this, any sharp movement was to be avoided.
I called for warm brandy mixed with lemon and honey to start the warming from inside. To my relief, his eyes finally opened and I got him to take a few sips. That too would have to go slowly. His lips were blue and after a time, his body had begun to shake. That was a good sign.
At some time during this process, Isla McLaren had entered the room, and now stared down at my friend in grave concern. ‘Dr Watson,’ said she, ‘Will he live?’
I nodded, willing it to be true. ‘Very well then,’ said she. ‘The royal party has arrived for the dinner preceding the tasting. I will fetch the laird now, if he will break away.’
As she passed through the open door to the main kitchen I got a glimpse of servants rushing about with slabs of meat, bowls of fruit, platters of cakes. The festive preparations for the royal visit could not be in stranger contrast to our own gruesome task. I quickly closed the door behind her.
I glanced over at the stiffened remains of Fiona Paisley and Iain Moray. With a final look at Holmes, who was propped before the fire on two chairs and resting comfortably, I approached the two frozen bodies on the tables in the centre of the room.
They were both caught in strange, contorted positions resembling nothing so much as dead beetles – arms and legs oddly bent, some sticking up into the air. These positions related, I presumed, to how they had ultimately frozen on the uneven surface of the mounds of ice. The girl’s headless corpse, white with frost as her head had been when presented on the platter, was perhaps even stranger than the boy’s. Her back was arched, and arms extended, fists clenched. It was hard to think of this form as human.
The body of Iain Moray, on the other hand, was, like Holmes moments ago, covered in a white layer of thin, brittle, grey ice. This made him an eerie statue. His arms were extended forward and crooked, hands nearly touching, head tilted to one side, almost in a position of succour. He had once been a handsome lad, strong bodied, with a broad chest and shock of reddish blond hair, now frozen in a halo around his anguished face.
Already the frost and ice had begun to melt, leaving dark patches here and there on both corpses.
Ualan Moray stood over his son’s body, weeping silently.
I became aware that a few of the kitchen staff were now huddled at the other end of the large room, eyes bulging in horror. Abruptly their gaze flew from the corpses to something over my shoulder. They screamed.
I whirled to see Holmes. Now standing, he was an emaciated, ghastly apparition. He had thrown the blankets and hot water bottles to the ground. With his white shirt hanging off his thin frame, his face a ghostly bluish pale, he was a fright.
‘Watson!’ he croaked. ‘Clear this room!’ I nodded at one of the servants and the room emptied, all save Ualan Moray, lingering in grief next to the body of his son.
‘Sit down, Holmes,’ I said. ‘You are not at all well!’
He did not, and instead stepped forward to view the bodies. His legs buckled but I rushed forward and succeeded in catching him before he hit the flagstones. He was shivering now, deep, rocking tremors. He raised a trembling hand and looked at it with a strange dispassion, as though it were not part of him. It was shaking like the palsy.
‘Devil take it!’ He took a deep breath and willed the hand to stillness. ‘Give me your glass, Watson! I need to examine the bodies.’
‘Not yet. They will keep.’ I picked up a warm blanket and threw it over his shoulders.
‘No, they are melting as we dawdle. The glass, I say! And get me a pitcher of warm water!’
I had taken to carrying an extra magnifying glass at all times since our adventure with the Twice Dead Missionary some two years past in which a second lens had literally saved our lives, I handed him mine and he stumbled towards the contorted remains of Fiona Paisley. I placed a small pitcher of warm water nearby.
Holmes bent close over the body of the girl, peering through my lens at her arm, moving slowly down to the hand. By the other table, Ualan Moray had begun to keen over the body of his son. Holmes gave me a quick look, nodding towards the door, and I gently took Moray aside.
‘Sir,’ I whispered. ‘Mr Holmes will find out what or who killed your boy. I promise. But he must work alone.’
The man turned to me with tears. ‘My Iain,’ he sobbed.
‘Go to your other boy, Calum, Mr Moray. He will need you now,’ I said. Moray nodded, and allowed me to usher him out.
I turned then to watch my friend. Holmes, still trembling, had begun to circle Fiona’s body, moving stiffly at first, leaning in to touch, pouring small amounts of warm water here and there upon the corpse, examining closely with the glass, fingering the frozen clothing. As usual, the exigencies of an exciting case inspired physical feats of endurance in Holmes beyond those which seemed humanly possible. Still shaking, he moved around the bodies – darting back and forth, quicker and quicker, precise and thorough, as in a macabre dance.
After a time he seemed satisfied. ‘Take a look, Watson,’ he directed. I followed him, casting my own medical eye on the corpses. He pointed at bruises on Fiona’s wrists and forearms. But I saw no marks on the boy’s.
Meanwhile, my concern grew for my friend. His lips were still blue, his body racked with convulsive shivers. ‘Holmes,’ I began. ‘You risk going into shock. We must get you into a warm bath.’
‘Later, Watson. These bodies will not wait.’ He turned back to his examination. There was still no sign of the laird. Had I not been so preoccupied with Holmes, I might have dwelled on Sir Robert’s curious absence.
But moments later the man himself, kilted and ornamented, in full Highland dress, with lace cuffs, a jewelled dirk, and an ornate pistol tucked into his complex array, strode into the room, followed by Isla McLaren. Brushing past me and Holmes, he marched to the table where he cast his eyes over the frozen body of his daughter, took a quick glance at the boy’s corpse, and with a soft gagging sound suddenly turned his back to us.
After several seconds he regained his composure turned to face my friend. ‘What has happened here, Mr Holmes? How is it that Fiona, and this boy—’
‘I am endeavouring to find out, Laird Robert,’ said Holmes. ‘I need time to examine these bodies. I want them moved to a cooler room.’ He shivered violently. I picked up another blanket and put it on his shoulders.
If the laird noticed anything about Holmes’s desperate condition, he did not remark upon it. ‘Carry on, Mr Holmes,’ he said coldly. He gestured an older servant to his side. ‘See that Mr Holmes has what he needs. Block off the view from the other room, and warn everyone that if a word of this escapes the kitchen, the entire staff will be dismissed without reference.’
He turned to Holmes. ‘The Royal family has arrived. I expect your full report this night upon their departure. Under no circumstances are you or Dr Watson to make an appearance. As far as they are concerned,’ he closed his eyes for several seconds. ‘none of this has happened.’
Isla stepped to him and took his hand. ‘I shall remain, Father, and be your eyes and ears here.’
‘It is not fit for a—’ the laird began and then stopped himself. He seemed to realize that he was looking at the only member of his family who could handle the task. ‘Isla, my gem. Yes, remain for now. You will miss the dinner and we will miss your presence. But you are right, it is for the best. But dress and join us at the warehouse promptly at eight for the tasting.’
She nodded. He then turned and exited abruptly.
Holmes had already returned to his examination of the bodies and was bent over Fiona’s form with his glass when Mrs McLaren removed her winter coat and set her fur-trimmed hat upon a counter.
‘He is remarkably recovered!’ she said to me, watching my friend at his work. I thought I detected a brief look of admiration, but sensing my gaze she quickly shrugged it off.
Holmes looked up from peering closely at the girl’s left hand. He gave Mrs McLaren his chilliest look, not difficult in his present condition. ‘Two young people in the laird’s employ lie dead here,’ said he. ‘And his dinner takes precedence.’
I wondered that he had not mentioned the laird’s paternity.
‘Well, one he already knew was dead,’ said Mrs McLaren coldly, ‘The other is not a complete surprise. Do carry on.’
‘I intend to,’ he remarked, through chattering teeth. ‘Nothing, Mrs McLaren, will get in the way of my proceeding with this investigation, your father-in-law’s peculiar priorities notwithstanding.’
‘Do not judge so quickly, Mr Holmes. The future of the family rests on this evening. We already knew the girl was dead. Now, what have you discovered?’
He ignored the question. I glanced towards the closed door leading to the kitchen. Despite the laird’s threat, I knew that every member of the household from the family principals to the lowest scullery maid would already be gossiping about the tragic tableau on view in this room.
‘Mr Holmes?’ Isla repeated. She moved closer to look at the bodies herself. ‘Have you discovered anything?’
‘The picture slowly emerges,’ said he, cradling Fiona’s frozen hand in his own and prying open the fingers. He shifted to one side to block our view of this.
‘Do tell us, Mr Holmes,’ said Isla McLaren.
‘Ha!’ he cried. He kept his back to us for a moment, then finally turned to face Mrs McLaren. ‘Well yes, some things are quite clear,’ said he. ‘It appears that the girl died of a cerebral haemorrhage due to a flat, wide blow to the occipital region of the head, probably from a fall, and that her decapitation was post mortem. I received final confirmation in a wire from my forensic expert in Edinburgh last night. But before she died of this head injury, I see now that she struggled with someone. There are bruises here, on her wrists, and on the forearms as well.’
‘Her killer!’ exclaimed the lady. ‘The fiend!’
‘Patience. That is not the entire story. From the placement of the bruises, I deduce that the combatant, who was quite large – note the span of the fingers here – attempted to restrain rather than attack her, and was defending himself. Recall from the head that she bore no facial marks,’ – and here he moved quickly down the torso – ‘nor are there bruises elsewhere on the torso. No one struck this girl in anger.’
Mrs McLaren stepped forward to better see what he had described. She was truly a remarkable woman to remain so cool in the presence of such gruesome evidence. ‘Very well, then. But you said the blow to the head killed her?’
‘Yes, here.’ He pointed to the back of his own skull. ‘It is likely that in the struggle, she fell backward upon the floor, as the fracture is wide and shallow, almost like a cracked eggshell. One can survive such a blow, but not always. The bleeding would have been internal and slow, death not immediate, although loss of consciousness, yes. Yes.’
‘We did not notice this wound when we examined the head in France.’ said I.
‘True, because it was shallow. But unfortunately sufficient, and consistent with a fall backwards. Landing full force on a stone floor, for example.’
Holmes moved around to the other side of Fiona’s body, indicating the next as though lecturing an anatomy class. ‘From the splayed position of the limbs, here, the girl was thrown onto the ice insensible, and probably dead. The body froze in the position in which it landed. Still with the head attached, I might add.’
‘How can you know that, Mr Holmes?’ asked Mrs McLaren.
‘From the angle of the neck, which froze canted back, obviously affected by the weight of the head which was still there at the time.’
At this point the lady was obliged to take a turn about the room before forcing herself to rejoin us. My admiration for her grew. ‘Go on,’ she said, having regained her composure. ‘But why throw the body in the ice pit?’
‘Exigency. The ground is frozen. Above ground risked discovery. There the body would remain preserved, without the attendant putrefaction. It was not a well-planned choice, but probably seemed a good temporary solution.’
‘But what of Iain Moray, poor boy?’ said she, now turning her attention to the young man’s corpse.
‘The boy’s body tells another story entirely. He climbed down into the pit fully conscious, probably in an attempt to rescue the girl. It has already been established that Iain had taken to following Fiona. He no doubt saw her body being conveyed there, dropped his knapsack outside, which was later covered in snow, and entered. There are no bruises on his body so he did not encounter the perpetrator but perhaps waited until he had left. Or thought he had left.
‘Iain Moray then climbed down the ladder into the pit and found Fiona, intact and dead from her head wound, though perhaps he hoped she was merely unconscious. We will never know that detail. Then someone, and my theory is that this was a second man, came and deliberately removed the ladder, leaving Iain trapped.’
‘How can you know that?’ Isla McLaren exclaimed.
I was happy, for once, not to be the one asking these questions.
‘From the condition of his clothing. Note this thin, very brittle film of ice, so different from the frost on her clothing. He was then doused with water. That speaks of cruel intent, does it not?’
‘The same fate meant for you,’ I said.
‘Iain was not so lucky,’ admitted Holmes.
‘Who could have done such a thing?’ cried the lady. ‘To either of you?’
‘It is a murderous spirit, no doubt. Let me finish. Kindly note the position of his arms. The boy froze to death cradling something. No doubt he died holding the girl he loved.’
‘But I thought his body was found some distance from hers?’
‘Yes, and I shall get to that,’ said Holmes. ‘Iain froze to death, as I said, cradling her. But I believe someone, probably this second person, came later, separated the two, and sawed off the head of the girl with a serrated blade. As we have seen.’ He shivered, though from the cold or a reaction to his own discovery I could not say.
‘While still in the pit?’
‘Possibly. Although it would have taken some time, and the perpetrator might have frozen to death himself while carrying out his heinous task.’
‘And so someone retrieved the body, sawed off her … oh it is too horrible!’ said Isla McLaren.
‘In any case, my expert’s assessment of the nature of the cut on the neck is that the head was already frozen when cut from the body. It also explains how her stiffened body lay propped up unusually on the ice as I found her, arms in the air – in the position in which they originally froze. The two bodies were thus separated and that is why I did not discover the boy’s at first, but only later, as I struggled in the ice myself.’
‘Remarkable, Holmes!’ I exclaimed at this tour de force of logic.
Mrs McLaren nodded, then stepped away from Holmes for a second time, pale with the images created by this grotesque chain of events, and I rushed to steady her. She pushed me away.
‘Dr Watson, I am not so weak,’ said she. ‘But thank you.’ She took a deep breath and turned her focus on Holmes again. ‘Have you any theories as to the perpetrator of this crime?’
Holmes stood back from the bodies and looked over the grotesque scene. ‘There is a dark spirit at work here,’ said he. ‘But I feel certain that at least two hands were involved. The poor girl’s death might have been an accident, and I lean strongly towards that theory, but what happened after was purely by design.’
‘But what could have been the purpose?’ Isla wondered.
Holmes glanced at me, but was silent.
‘You may have discovered a method, but you seem no closer to a motive than before,’ said she.
‘We must begin with what we do know, Mrs McLaren, and that is a great deal. The beheading and the sending of this head are, I admit, puzzling. Whatever the motive was, it is twisted and cruel almost beyond comprehension. It harmed the laird, but it has also drawn attention to what I believe was the accidental killing of the girl. For that and other reasons I believe the killer and the sender were two different men.’
‘Are you sure? Could it not be two aspects of the same man? A Jekyll and Hyde perhaps?’ said Mrs McLaren. She approached the body of the girl and reached out towards it.
‘Do not touch! The person who beheaded Fiona and caused her head to be brought in on a plate has an unusual turn of mind, vindictive, angry, and obsessive. The act speaks of hatred, revenge, a wish to destroy.’
‘Destroy whom?’
‘Most probably your father-in-law.’
‘Do you know who either of these two men is?’
‘Yes, I do. I now know who killed Fiona.’
‘Who?’ cried Mrs McLaren.
‘I shall tell your father-in-law at the earliest opportunity.’
‘But the other? You said there was another?’
Holmes said nothing.
‘When did you know the killer?’ persisted Isla McLaren.
‘Just now. The proof is here.’ He patted the pocket of his jacket.
‘What proof? Who?’ asked the lady, approaching him. ‘Not another earring!’
‘No.’ Holmes held his hand up to stop her. ‘The laird will hear shortly. You will have to be patient, Mrs McLaren.’
The door to the kitchen opened as more hot tea and brandy were brought in, and in that brief moment I noted that beyond it the kitchen had grown more crowded and frenetic. Silver platters of prepared delicacies flew by on raised hands, smoked salmon, petits fours …
‘You were asked to give me your results!’ protested the lady.
‘I shall report to the laird personally,’ said Holmes. ‘You recall that someone attempted to kill me this very afternoon, and that person has not been found. Until that time, I must keep my silence.’
‘No offence meant to you, Mrs McLaren,’ I interjected. ‘But we must be firm on this point.’
She hesitated, searching for a retort.
‘If you leave now, you may be in time for dessert,’ said Holmes, with a touch of sarcasm. ‘This is an event not to be missed.’
The lady drew herself up in anger.
‘The laird will send for you to make your report at the end of the evening,’ she said.
She swept from the room without further words, leaving her hat on the counter. A servant slipped in immediately, retrieved it, and scurried after Mrs McLaren. I closed the door behind her, leaving us alone in the room.
I turned to my friend. To my surprise, his eyes had closed and he swayed, then sagged against the table. I rushed to take his arm. ‘Holmes, I am concerned for your recovery. I insist you get into a warm bath at once.’
He nodded.
‘Watson, you have not asked what it was that I found?’
‘All right. If it will get us out of this room. Is there something?’
‘Of course, Watson. I found this in Fiona’s hand.’ With a weak flourish, Holmes held up a small scrap into the light. ‘A bit of fabric from a man’s shirt. Torn in a struggle, no doubt, to the death.’ He smiled in grim triumph. To him it was a prize.
I leaned in for a better look. ‘Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is but a small bit of fabric and a button of a very common type. What are the chances of our finding the match?’
‘I have already found it. Let us return to our room where there is more privacy.’
‘And a warm bath,’ said I. ‘You are not yet out of danger.’