The Last Duchess of Inverness: A Blackwood Mystery

The Last Duchess of Inverness

The telegram had arrived in the dead of night, its words scrawled in a shaky, hurried hand. "Sir Gideon Blackwood, your assistance is required at Castle Inverness. The emerald necklace is missing. And so is she." It was signed simply, "Margaret, Duchess of Inverness."

Castle Inverness loomed large in Blackwood's mind even before he set out for the Scottish Highlands. Built in the early 13th century, it was a place of legend and infamy, its shadowed halls known for harboring more than just family secrets. Rumors of curses, betrayal, and ancient feuds clung to its name like fog over the Highlands. Yet, his rational mind resisted the lure of superstition. In all his cases, Blackwood had found that the true hauntings of any place lay in the hearts of its inhabitants.

Now, seated in a carriage that wound up a desolate road toward the isolated fortress, Blackwood felt a chill far colder than the damp Highland air. His journey brought him to the castle just as night began to fall, casting long shadows across the ancient stone walls. The castle rose up like a dark monolith against the rolling hills, its Gothic towers piercing the low-hanging mist, each window darkened like a watchful, unblinking eye.

Upon arrival, he was greeted not by the Duchess herself but by Miss Emily Carver, a young American woman introduced as Lady Margaret's caretaker. Her face, though calm, was set with an unreadable expression. She held her composure as she led him through the grand but shadowed entryway, her footsteps soft against the stone floors.

"The Duchess sent for you two days ago," Emily murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "But... she's been missing since last night."

They stopped at a heavy wooden door, intricately carved with ancient symbols and images of thistles. It was the door to Lady Margaret's bedroom. Emily opened it slowly, revealing a scene that seemed frozen in time.

A Room in Disarray

The Duchess's chamber was an unsettling sight. The four-poster bed was unmade, its sheets rumpled and twisted, as if abandoned in haste. Drawers lay open, and a delicate porcelain lamp was shattered on the floor, its pieces glittering faintly in the dim light. Most unsettling of all, however, was the dressing table. It had been cleared of everything but an empty jewelry box, its velvet-lined interior marred by the imprint of something that had been removed.

Emily spoke, her tone laced with unease. "The emerald necklace. It's been in the family for centuries, passed down through the Inverness line. They say it's cursed, that every wearer... suffers."

Blackwood felt a pang of skepticism mixed with intrigue. "A curse, Miss Carver?"

"Yes," she replied, glancing over her shoulder as if fearing someone—or something—might be listening. "The necklace was taken from a defeated Highland chieftain centuries ago. Since then, there have been... deaths, disappearances. And the Duchess... she was wearing it the last time anyone saw her."

Blackwood's rational mind warred with the unsettling atmosphere of the room. "Have you informed her children?"

Emily's gaze darkened. "They're here already, though they hadn't visited in years. I... I don't think they'll be much help. They're here for the inheritance, not for her."

With that, Emily left him alone in the dim room. Blackwood moved toward the dressing table, his eyes scanning for any small detail that might offer a clue. Something glinted at the edge of the table—a small, green thread. He picked it up, inspecting it closely. It was coarse, like the weave of ancient Highland tartan.

As he pocketed the thread, his gaze fell on the walls of the chamber, where faded murals depicted scenes of battle and ceremony. One figure, a Highland chieftain adorned with a green necklace, stared back at him with eyes that seemed almost alive. Beneath the figure was a Gaelic inscription, worn by time. Blackwood traced his fingers over the words, deciphering, "To the one who wears it, beware—its weight is not for the faint of heart."