The Curse of Scotland
The 9 of Discs: gain, drive, wealth and well-being. Light: material happiness, gain, riches. Shadow: greed for more, materialistic thinking, dissipation, abuse, exploitation. From The Book of Thoth.
Prologue: Neuf a la Banque
Linlithgow, Scotland, 27th of March, 1926
There it was again: the 9 of Diamonds. The damned card that had been bedevilling me all night. My opponent smiled suavely at me across the green baize of the table, then leaned forward, exhaled a Mephistophelean cloud of cigar smoke and turned his second card over — the Jack of Hearts. Typical. ‘Neuf a la Punto!’ he chuckled nastily. ‘Le Grande Baccarat!’
I hate a bad winner, don’t you?
He was a cheat. A world class, top of the range, platinum-plated, 40-carat cheat. I knew this for sure, because he wasn’t playing the cards I was dealing him. I’m pretty sharp myself, and I was watching him like a hawk, but even I couldn’t spot how he was doing it.
I was spending a few days as a guest of Tommy Dalziel at his ancestral home, The House of the Riggs, a massive, ancient pile deep in the wilds of West Lothian. When I’d received his invitation, it hadn’t really seemed like my sort of thing at all, and after my recent experiences with The Coffin Club, I’d turned him down flat. But Tommy was a personable young chap. I’d found him one of the least objectional members of the club, and he was eager to make amends for their treatment of me, so a day or two later I told myself I was being too hasty. When I reconsidered, I realised that there were advantages to accepting his invitation — if I played my cards right, I might be able to make it turn a profit and cause a little mayhem on the side, just for my own amusement. I knew of the house itself by reputation. Stuffed to the rafters with hot loot, rumour had it that hidden behind a secret panel was a private gallery of erotic books, paintings and engravings. Right up my alley. As an added incentive, I was trying to avoid someone, and a weekend at a secluded country house seemed like a good idea. An ex-lover of mine, someone I’d only had a dalliance with for a month or so, seemed to be popping up wherever I went in Edinburgh. These “coincidences” were becoming a low-level nuisance now, and I began to suspect the hidden hand of The Coffin Club was behind them, though Tommy swore he knew nothing about it. She was a charming young school-mistress who taught the crème-de-la-crème of the City Fathers at a respectable, but undistinguished school for girls in Edinburgh city centre. Our brief, intense relationship had lasted right up to the moment she had returned from a trip to Italy, engulfed in the flames of a grand passion for Mussolini. That had been the absolute end for me.
I’d imagined that the company would be indulging in bracing outdoor pursuits involving fresh air, shotguns, long rambles in the country and all of that healthy, rustic horseshit, but I was wrong. Tommy was a sportsman of a different kind, with a mania for gambling, especially at cards. His parents had died in a sailing accident when he was young, so now he lived alone with his Grandfather, an ageing roué who shared his passion for the card table. The house was filled with idlers, spongers, flaneurs, bounders, cads and ne’er-do-wells. I was flattered to find myself among such undistinguished guests.
The Major and I had arrived that morning, and of course the first person I bumped into was my ex-lover. We were both shocked to see each other, and I assumed that this was yet another instance of Coffin Club interference, since it smacked of their brand of petty, spiteful, schoolboy vengeance. She was there with her latest conquest, a one-armed, shell-shocked veteran, who also happened to be the master of the art department at her school. He was married with a young family, and, rumour had it, was overly-fond of some of the young ladies in his charge. Here in this house, they both maintained an icy veneer of respectability, but I knew as soon as the lights were out they’d be bed-hopping each other’s brains out. I despised the pair of them; the scum-de-la-scum. After we had recovered from our initial horror, I did my best to avoid them, and had vowed to spend the weekend taking the entire household to the cleaners at the card table. Later on, I planned to indulge in a spot of one of my own favourite field sports: country house burglary.
Apart from my affable and seemingly feckless host, I didn’t see any other Coffin Club members around, but I guessed they would be represented, in spirit if nothing else. Naturally, I remained en garde.
After dinner, The Major had spent the evening playing backgammon, and was now dozing contentedly by the fire, a copy of The New Arabian Nights spread open on his chest. For a while, I had enjoyed a pleasant, civilised game of Chemin de Fer. Then the thieving bastard across the table had crow-barred his way into the action and upset my plans. He proceeded to win coup after coup, and I quickly detected a whiff of brimstone about him. I can smell competition a mile off — well, it takes one to know one. Now I was determined to see him off my turf and take him to the cleaners at the same time.
As our animosity grew, I steadfastly refused to pass the bank to anyone else, and the rest of the players drifted away to find other diversions before it was time for bed. From the opium and hemp fumes on the air, I could guess how most of them were spending their time. I can’t say I blamed them.
‘Your luck shows no sign of running out Mr…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name…’
‘Mahoun. Nicholas Mahoun. You, on the other hand, are well known to me, Miss Schwarz. I hear you’re a very wicked young lady.’
I ground my teeth, but smiled at him. Even seated, he cut an impressive figure. He was tall, over six feet, and exceptionally slender and pale. His hair was as black as pitch, glistening wetly with oil and swept back from a narrow forehead. Every now and again an unruly lock would break free, curling over his right eyebrow like a comma. He was dressed, less formally than I was, in black tie; his elegantly cut dinner jacket of midnight blue seemed as black as the abyss in the lamplight.
In contrast to the simplicity of his evening dress, he wore a large, slightly vulgar ring of old gold, set with a huge red diamond, surrounded by 9 smaller white diamonds. The rich, dull, burnished gold caught the firelight and glowed like flaming autumn leaves. The red diamond was of plain antique point cut and was unusually large, somewhere between 6 and 7 carats. The simple craftsmanship and naive design of the whole suggested great antiquity. Even to my amateur eye, it was obviously worth a fortune. I wanted it, badly. I decided right there and then that I would have it.
The hand that wore it was long, delicate, pale and well-manicured. As I gazed at it, I had a sudden revelation. This was his trick: simple misdirection with the sparkler. While my eye was wandering to the ring, he’d work a little sleight of hand and switch the card I dealt him with one of his choice from a stash concealed about him somewhere; an Arm Pressure Holdout in his jacket sleeve, probably. No magic to it at all really, and certainly nothing as sophisticated as I could pull on him. He was simply using my own greed against me.
Well, two could play at that game. We weren’t strictly adhering to the rules of Chemmy by this point anyway, and there was no one to observe the simmering animosity between us.
‘You lose gracefully’, he said adding another five of my ill-gotten £10 notes to his stake. ‘I do hope you’re not planning to take some dreadful revenge on me.’
‘Not at all’, I lied, ‘I was merely admiring your ring. It’s quite magnificent. If I’m not mistaken, the stone is a red diamond, is it not?’
‘Yes, you’re quite correct. You certainly know your stones, my dear. I can see I’ll need to keep my wits about me. I was warned about you, you know.’
Interesting, I thought — I wondered by whom? I kept silent and tried not to betray any emotion.
‘It looks old,’ I said.
‘Yes, it is,’ he replied.
‘Must be expensive.’
‘Very.’
‘Well now. You’ve had a tremendous run of luck, Nick. Would you like to push it to the very limit?’ I asked, knowing very well that his vanity wouldn’t allow him to refuse.
‘Naturally, Anna — if I may. What would you suggest? One more coup?’ He fidgeted eagerly in his chair, eyes bright with greed.
I on the other hand remained cool, aloof, detached, matter of fact. ‘I have no objections — but it’s getting late and neither of us seems willing to back down. We could be here forever. Double or quits.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Very well. But we need to up the stakes, don’t you agree? Your call.’
‘Your ring,’ I purred without hesitation, staring him down.
The smile flickered briefly, then his uncertainty was over, and his arrogance returned.
‘Why not?’ He slipped the ring from his finger and his hand hovered indecisively for a moment — did it also tremble slightly? Then he steeled himself and resolutely placed it on the pile of cash on the table.
‘Now, in return you have to pledge something of equal value.’
‘I’m afraid that my remaining funds only amount to £100 cash. I assume that won’t be nearly enough to cover it. I can assure you however, that I am good for the money.’
‘You are correct. Though I do trust you to be able to cover the cash on the table, the ring obviously increases the total bet to a figure way beyond conventional value.’
‘Understood. I’m open to suggestions. What can I offer you?’ I was openly taunting him now, trying to rattle him as much as he’d rattled me.
Without hesitating, he leaned back in his chair and looked casually down at the green baize.
‘Your soul.’
The universe teetered for a millisecond. The room grew smaller, darker, quieter. The embers tinkled in the grate.
‘You’re joking?’ I said, half laughing.
He grinned icily at me. ‘Do I look like I’m joking?’
‘Well, it does seem like you’re out to get me,’ I replied.
A sensual, cruel look flickered in his eyes. ‘It’s an idea, at that…’ he growled.
I considered for a moment. This was ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly be sincere. What the hell was he really after? Intrigued, I decided to take him on. On my own terms…
‘Very well, I accept — but on one condition. I pass the bank to you.’
He smirked, greedily. ‘If you insist. I admire your courage, Miss Schwarz.’
‘And I admire your stones, Mr Mahoun.’ He raised an eyebrow in wry amusement.
I pushed the shoe across the table to him. After a pause to sip at his whisky, he flicked two cards from it, and they floated across the baize towards me. Without taking my eyes from his, I left them face down on the table. Without glancing downwards, he slapped two cards out of the shoe for himself.
I waited for a moment, then fished a little silver snuff-box from my waistcoat, and took a pinch of cocaine. Then I fitted a cigarette in my holder and lit it. I took a deep lungful of Boyard smoke, then turned my head to the left to exhale. As I did, I casually let the lamplight catch my monocle. A stray beam struck Mahoun’s eyes, and he winced irritably, as if flinching away from a bothersome insect. I took a deep breath, removed the monocle and polished it with the silk handkerchief in my breast pocket. Finally, when this little bit of pantomime was over, I turned my attention back to the game.
I turned my cards up together, one covering the other. On top: The Queen of Spades. I slid it over to the side and revealed the face of the second card: The 9 of Diamonds. Neuf a la Punto.
Mahoun turned over his cards: The 9 of Diamonds, and the Ace of Spades. His face darkened. He stared at the pair of cards in front of him. Ten seconds passed and he kept on staring. ‘You seem to be struggling to comprehend, Mr Mahoun. That’s “Un, a la Banque.” You lose.’
I sensed movement in the darkness beside me, and The Major appeared quietly by my elbow.
‘Is there a problem here?’ he asked, fingering his dirk suggestively.
Mahoun exploded, crashing to his feet and throwing the table over in a cloud of cards and banknotes. “You cheating…!” The word died in his throat as The Major stepped between us, breathing heavily. I kept my icy hauteur, rose slowly and swept the ring up from the floor. I put it on the middle finger of my right hand, and held it out admiringly to let it catch the light.
‘It’s a little rich for my taste, but I like it,’ I said coolly.
Mahoun brushed himself down, then smoothed his hair.
‘Enjoy it,’ he snapped, ‘While you can,’ then he turned sharply away and flounced from the room without saying goodnight.
I watched him mince off, a smug grin plastered all over my dial. ‘What a rude fellow!’ I said, beaming at The Major. ‘Extraordinary behaviour!’
The Major didn’t seem to share my triumphal mood. ‘You need to watch out for that one, Miss,’ he said dourly. ‘You know where to find me if you need me tonight.’
I brushed off his concerns with a dismissive shrug. ‘Thanks, Jock, but I can handle him myself.’
I got down on my hands and knees and shamelessly scooped up the rest of my winnings from the carpet.
I went back to my room, but not to sleep. I expected a visitor before the night was out; it was inevitable. I dressed for action, changing into a pair of Donegal tweed bags and a black silk polo neck jumper. I kept my soft dress shoes on. I arranged blankets, bolster and pillows in my bed to look like the figure of my sleeping self. I left my pocket watch, collar studs, cufflinks wallet, loose change, and the diamond ring tantalisingly on the night stand, within easy reach of the door. Next, I took my bottle of hair oil and applied a good amount to the hinges of my wardrobe. After a quick pinch of cocaine to ward off sleep, I stepped inside, cracked the door open a millimetre, and settled down to wait.
I didn’t have to wait long. Despite the coke, I dozed off. After about 20 minutes, there was a soft noise — no more than a stirring of the air — and I was instantly alert. I sneaked a look at the luminous dial of my wristwatch: 3.45am. Peeping out between the wardrobe doors, I made out a blurred, dark figure showing faintly against the grainy blue-grey of my night darkened room. I heard the gentle swish of movement as the intruder quickly closed the door and crossed the room to the bed. After a pause, there was more vague rustling, and the room was empty again.
I quietly slipped from the wardrobe and flitted after my uninvited visitor. Out in the hallway, I flattened myself against the wall and watched the back of an amorphous figure scurrying silently away. I followed it along the landing and down the stairs, as it moved through the house, pausing on the way to visit the library, before sneaking out of a side door at the back of the house near the kitchens and garage. As I drew closer to the door, I heard the vague murmur of low voices. I moved to the side of the pantry window, and carefully opened it an inch or two. Keeking out, I saw Mahoun talking to a figure — a human silhouette. I couldn’t make out any features, so was unable to recognise the stranger. I couldn’t hear what they spoke about either, but judging from the gestures they both made, the discussion was heated. It also seemed to me that an object was exchanged between them.
Then they parted, Mahoun headed for the garage, while the second man slinked off in the opposite direction. I followed Mahoun at a discreet distance, picking my way cautiously across the gravel of the driveway. I heard the sound of a smooth, expensive engine being started, and I darted for cover behind a rhododendron bush. A long, sleek Mercedes Roadster purred out of the garage and headed for the park gates. I didn’t care if I was seen now. Without thinking, I broke cover and dashed for the garage, hopped into The Major’s Bentley Super Sports, and was off after my quarry.
It was a cold night, with a little late frost in the air, and some low-lying mist hanging here and there over the parkland. The stars looked down on our little drama with disinterest. The big Mercedes was moving fast, hitting well over 70 by the time it was out of the grounds and onto the open road. The Bentley — “the fastest lorry in the world” — was more than a match for it though, and it only took a few seconds for me to catch up. I didn’t bother to hang back, there was no point. Mahoun had obviously spotted me immediately, and was throwing his car recklessly round blind corners at top speed. All he cared about was outrunning me, while all I needed to do was keep him in sight. But where the hell was he heading? East to Edinburgh? South to Bathgate? Or West to Falkirk, Stirling or Glasgow? I wouldn’t know for certain until he reached the junction with the main road near Winchburgh. I cursed myself for not having stopped to pick up The Major, or at least to tell him what I was up to. He was the master of the Bentley, while I was used to my smaller, lighter Bugatti.
We tore through the gates, veering sharply left, slithering all over the icy road.
The roads among the farmland were narrow, unlit, and wound their way through dark, hilly terrain. Not far from the main gates, we blazed through a crossroads buried among a clump of trees without slowing down. Beyond it, the road banked sharply to the right, down into a shallow dip. I threw the Bentley heavily into it, the brakes and tyres complaining loudly. The bodywork lurched alarmingly on the suspension, I hovered for a moment and it seemed I was about to barrel roll in mid-air. Gravity prevailed, and I stamped viciously on the accelerator, more determined than ever to keep up. My heart hammered as fiercely as the Bentley’s own 6 cylinders. We climbed into the Bathgate Hills, and the roads became darker and more crowded with woodland. As we crested a steep rise, I misjudged the road, thinking it turned left, when in fact it ran straight ahead. I ricocheted off of the dry stone wall on my left, veered over to the right, bounced off of the dyke on the other side, and careered crazily back into the middle of the road again. I was stunned, but unhurt, and was off after Mahoun again in seconds. I had no time to stop and inspect the damage to the Bentley — it was still moving, that was the main thing. The Major would be heart broken.
After that, it was a short pursuit. Barely a mile from the gates of the grounds, Mahoun’s Mercedes suddenly wasn’t there anymore. One moment I was watching the dull red glare of its rear lights, then there was a blinding white flash, and I was ploughing straight for the heart of an inferno at 80mph. I yanked the steering wheel to the left, wrenched the handbrake, and narrowly avoided a premature cremation. I got out and tried to approach the wreckage — but it was no use. The heat and flames drove me back.
I gave myself a few minutes to recover from the shock, then I drove as steadily as I could back to the house and called to the butler for a telephone.
As I strode down the hallway, The Major intercepted me, taking me by the elbow and steering me swiftly into the library.
‘Nice outfit,’ I said to him, looking him up and down with wry amusement, ‘But a little avant-garde for your tastes, I would have thought. I deduce from your eccentric choices, that you rose at the sound of the explosion and dressed in haste.’ He was in his pyjamas and a Fairisle jumper, his leather driving coat thrown over the top. The sight of his naked feet thrust into his walking shoes made me shiver in disgust.
‘Elementary, Watson, but wrong, as usual.’ He looked at me grimly, his brow furrowed, his eyes bulging starkly in their sockets, dark circles beneath them. ‘I think only the butler saw you coming back in, but I can’t be sure. The police and fire brigade have already been called,’ he said with his usual clipped, military briskness. He tossed me a big hip flask full of Old Gold Watch. I caught it, and took a long pull from it.
The events of the last half hour had left me shaken and confused. ‘What is this, Major?’ I said, gasping from the rawness of the whisky ‘What the hell’s going on here?’
He gripped me by the elbow again and pushed me quickly towards the kitchen. ‘There’s going to be trouble. Big trouble. And we need to keep you out if it as much as possible, so before you do anything or speak to anyone, there’s something you better come and see…’ We slipped out of the kitchen door as quiet as a pair of spectres and crunched along the gravel path; The Major led, I followed.
He took me to the lawn at the rear of the house, where there was an ornamental pool known as The Captain’s Pond. The Major pointed at the murky stagnant water. At first, I didn’t know what I was supposed to be looking at. ‘This was rolled up and shoved down the back of his throat…’ The Major slipped me a damp pasteboard tube. I unrolled it: the 9 of Diamonds. And then I saw him, and I gasped in shock and disbelief. There, in the stagnant green water with the koi carp, gazing serenely upwards into eternity, floated the corpse of Nicholas Mahoun.
