The Lammas Curse

by Anna Lord

  And so it went all morning. Miss O’Hara was the only person in the audience, directing and starring at the same time. Everyone else was either in their dressing room or preparing to enter the stage via the vestry or exiting the stage via the porch. Scene changes ran like clockwork and Miss O’Hara was in a rare good mood that became quite infectious. Even Carter earned praise for his manliness. And when he and Miss O’Hara appeared on stage together as Lord and Lady Macbeth, and breaths were tightly drawn with fear and trepidation, it was a word-perfect triumph. What a pairing! A genuine coup de theatre!

  Everyone decamped in high spirits to the glass conservatory where a buffet lunch had been laid on in high style. Dr Watson was in the highest spirits of them all. He had solved the problem of the mysterious poacher the moment Carter-Macbeth appeared on stage wearing greasepaint, wrapped in a cloak of grey and purple tartan. A little more greasepaint and his skin would have taken on the tanned hue of a foreigner, or, as Ned the woodchopper put it: a darkie. Going by that description, he had suspected Mr Chandrapur of murdering Mr Brown, but the factotum had no motive. But Mr Carter Dee did.

  All that the good doctor needed to establish was opportunity and he had his murderer ready to hand over at the inquest. He pictured another coup de theatre with himself as the star and his chest swelled.

  “A penny for your thoughts?”

  Dr Watson was jolted out of his moment of self-applause. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You were looking rather pleased with yourself, Uncle John. I wondered what had ushered in such an engaging smile.”

  Miss Lambert was lunching with Mr Hamish Ross at a wrought iron table positioned in a corner of the conservatory, half-hidden by a plethora of potted palms, tropical ferns and exotic orchids. “Please join us,” she invited, indicating the third chair, asking him again about his smile.

  Dr Watson felt a bit like a third wheel as he sat down. “I was feeling relieved that the full dress rehearsal went so well,” he lied. “I hope it all goes equally well tonight.”

  “I’m sure it will be a great success,” ventured Miss Lambert, nibbling on a cheese and ham scone.

  Hamish Ross shrugged his substantial shoulders as he shovelled down some cold roast beef. “What does it matter whether it is a success or a failure? It is being staged for the benefit of publicity for the golf tournament – so even a dismal failure will be counted a success as long as someone writes an article for the newspapers.”

  “The tournament,” pointed out Dr Watson somewhat morosely, “has finished ahead of schedule due to a lack of competition so a bit of positive publicity cannot be a bad thing. The Dees will play-off against each other as scheduled on the fifth of November. Will your mother be amongst the audience tonight?” asked Dr Watson, changing the subject and trying not to picture performances past that would have made words such as ‘dismal failure’ sound like high praise.

  Hamish Ross shook his head as he shovelled down more cold cuts slathered with apple jelly. “My mother has gone to help out at the hotel. Your coachman has been roped in as well, along with several local lads and lassies. The hotel is full. My aunt is in quite a tizzy. There are eleven reporters, five photographers and two sketch artists. Most have come from Duns and Peebles or towns nearby, but two have come all the way from Edinburgh. Miss O’Hara is the draw card, of course, but the reporters are all staying on for the wedding, the golf final and the inquest into Mr Brown’s death too. I imagine they will be nosing around the estate for the next few days, getting underfoot and making life difficult.”

  “You don’t seem too sorry not to be starring in the play,” observed the doctor, noting the bountiful appetite and the lack of bitterness in the young man’s forthright tone.

  Hamish Ross gave a vigorous and throaty laugh. “No fear, Dr Watson! I am immensely relieved! I prefer to work behind the scenes, backstage. It suits me. I guess it comes from being a ghillie and spending long days with only Thane for company. I don’t crave an audience and I’m not one for hogging the limelight. Besides, Carter Dee is a natural thespian. Some men are born to it. No disrespect,” he said, lowering his voice, “but he always struck me as a bit of a show pony.” He glanced meaningfully at Miss Lambert. “Remember the Lammas Ball?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, elaborating. “It was a costume ball with a prize for the best costume. Miss Dee and Mr Dee swapped roles. He dressed as his sister and she dressed as her brother. They had everyone fooled all night. It was only after the masks came off at midnight that anyone knew - and how we gasped!”

  “I suppose no one bothered to look at his shaky hands,” said the doctor dryly.

  “Oh, no,” countered Miss Lambert. “His hands only started shaking recently. I cannot remember when exactly.”

  “I think it was after the third death,” interposed Hamish Ross. “Everyone was a bit on edge after the third death. I think it affected him more than most since he was the favourite for taking out the big prize.”

  “Are you sure?” queried the doctor. “I watched them play yesterday and I thought the sister was the superior player.”

  “No doubt about that now,” agreed the ghillie. “But at the commencement of the tournament Carter Dee was relaxed and in top form. His sister was tense and anxious. You could see it in the way she held herself, as tight as a coiled spring, and the way she hit her shots off the tee was plain dangerous. It wasn’t safe to stand too close. But it seems to have gone the other way now - done a complete turnaround. He is a bundle of nerves and she is incredibly sure of herself. If she doesn’t take out the prize I will be surprised. What do you think Miss Lambert” he put to his companion, drawing the young lady back into the conversation. “Would you say that is a fair assessment?”

  She nodded enthusiastically and smiled prettily. “Yes, quite, in fact I cannot help thinking of the Dees in terms of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth but taking on the opposite roles, same as the Lammas Ball. I hope that doesn’t sound too frivolous,” she expressed blushingly.

  The doctor’s bushy brows pleated fretfully. “I’m sorry I don’t follow.”

  “Oh, I’m hopeless at explaining things. Lady Moira is always saying that complicated thoughts only lead to complications.”

  “Not at all,” disputed the doctor. “Complex thoughts are the making of us. Have a go at explaining what you mean,” he encouraged.

  “Well, what I meant was, Miss Dee was ill at ease to begin with, reluctant to throw herself into the competition, she had no taste for it, the same as Macbeth was reluctant when Lady Macbeth first suggested they murder Duncan. Whereas Mr Dee was keen as mustard, ready to hurl himself into the fray and eliminate the competition by fair means or foul, as greedy and ambitious as Lady Macbeth, without scruple. Now, after the three deaths, well, it is even more like the play. There has been a complete turnaround with regards to character. Miss Dee is unstoppable, as if she has got a knack for killing off the competition and cannot stop herself, the same as Macbeth who takes to murdering with a passion, while Mr Dee is going to pieces, a bundle of nerves, wringing his hands - just like Lady Macbeth.”

  “You expressed that very clearly, Miss Lambert,” praised the ghillie, causing a most becoming blush to suffuse her cheeks.

  “Yes,” agreed Dr Watson, full of respect for his wife’s niece. “You have drawn parallels with the play and put forward your ideas most succinctly. I am very proud of you.”

  With a head crammed full of parallel thoughts, Dr Watson picked up his now empty plate. “Excuse me, but the buffet beckons and I will return for seconds of the curried haddock.” He forced a smile, not because he was worried or upset but because he was acutely aware that he had forgotten to ask the question that had been on the tip of his tongue for some time and which he had wanted to put to the ghillie. What was it? He got halfway across the conservatory before he remembered and turned back but the lovebirds were already slipping out the French doors leading to the walled garden. Ah, well, his question would keep.

  The red velvet
curtain with the elaborate gold bullion fringing parted at precisely five o’clock. The first three rows of pews were reserved for the eleven newspaper reporters, pads and pencils poised, the five photographers with new box cameras at the ready, and the two artists who were sketching feverishly with pencil and charcoal. Behind them sat the more prosperous farmers and some shopkeepers from Duns and Peebles, meaning those who could afford to pay ten shillings for a ticket, along with two vicars, a deacon, a sexton and a curate. Among this group the Countess recognized the red-faced owner of the coaching inn and his buxom young wife, the grand-daughter of the old lady from whom she had bought the willow basket and the bodkin. Crammed on benches to the rear were some of Lady Moira’s retinue – butler, cook, house-keeper, chambermaid, parlourmaid, footman, hall porter and coachman – who had been given tickets by their mistress much to Miss O’Hara’s disgust who had expressly forbidden any of the servants from Cruddock Castle to attend, citing that it would give them insufferable airs and graces.

  In the mezzanine could be found Fedir with his drum, the curate’s daughter on the harp and the curate’s wife at the organ. Mr Hamish Ross with a handful of assistants was juggling the demands backstage. Mr Chandrapur was in charge of the limelights, a dangerous task that required consummate skill to avoid setting fire to the stage, the chapel and Cruddock Castle.

  Act 1, scene 1: The Tragedy of Macbeth opened to polite applause that did nothing to bolster the amateur actors waiting nervously in the wings for their moment to strut and fret upon the stage, but the moment the three witches stepped onto the windy heath midst claps of thunder and flashes of lightning the audience was transfixed and theatrical success was assured.

  From that opening scene the trio of beautiful crones transported the watchers back through the mists of time to the metaphor inside themselves. The power of Shakespeare did the rest. There were a few minor glitches but by the time Macbeth’s knell was knolled they were well and truly forgotten. In the final act of the final scene, where Siward and Malcolm were extolling fair death, no one cared that the manly English general resembled an Indian Rajah or that the new king of Scotland looked like a Viking.

  Enter MacDuff as Macduff, clutching the bloody head of the usurper. “Hail, King of Scotland!” he cried.

  All: “Hail, King of Scotland!” And the audience cried with them.

  Flourish. Exeunt omnes.

  And so the curtain fell and the applause was deafening. Encore! came the clamour. And again, Encore! The curtain lifted and the dramatis personae were bundled together for a final bow, Miss O’Hara taking centre stage, glorious, victorious, marvellous! No one noticed the strange figure cloaked in Black Watch tartan standing on the mezzanine until she raised a bony hand and addressed the crowd portentously.

  “How now, Hecate! You look proud and angerly.

  I came to say: How did you dare

  To trade and traffic in my affair?

  You were mistress of all charm,

  Close contriver of all harm,

  And for what? A wayward son?

  Who will bring it all undone?

  But to make amends tis not too late,

  Lend a helping hand to Fate.

  Set right a hundred years of wrong,

  Strike the fatal gong,

  Spurn life, scorn death, be clear,

  Summon the Spirits and have no fear!”

  The applause built to thundering crescendo. The audience thought the weird sister on the mezzanine was an addendum to the play and though some were thrown into confusion, they remembered it was Hallowe’en and so cast off the vague illusion of something not quite right and clapped and clapped until their hands were red raw and chapped.

  “Bravo! Bravo!” rang the chorus of applause.

  Mad Mother MacBee, stunned and thrilled and humbled, bowed her frowzy head, waved an arm as though she were the Queen of England acknowledging her adoring subjects, and then was gone, the same way that she came, just like that!

  Supper was served in the library where trestle tables had been set groaning with food, flowers and scented candles. In the heart of the eighty foot room, where the séance table had stood, was a glass cabinet which housed a few priceless curios – a lock of hair from Mary Queen of Scots, a belt buckle belonging to Bothwell, an arrowhead from Flodden Field, a Pictish rune - and taking pride of place was the magnificent Lammas tiara. The jewel in the crown - the Govinda diamond - glittered right royally as it caught the flash of bulbs.

  “Put on the tiara, Miss O’Hara!” beseeched a photographer for The Quotidienne.

  “Yes! Do!” came the call from every quarter.

  Lola, wearing a beatific smile, turned hopefully to her fiancé. But his lordship’s stony face rendered those hopes crestfallen.

  “Sorry, darling,” he tendered apologetically. “Not until the wedding day. We cannot unlock the cabinet for reasons of security.” His eyes fell on the four liveried footmen who had been tasked with guarding the cabinet, tall and trusted fellows who had been discretely posted to the far flung corners of the longitudinal empire.

  Despite the lack of a tiara to crown her shining glory, Lola was the star. Venus in her firmament paled in comparison to the luminous Irish actress as she posed in cameo after cameo of loveliness. By ten o’clock the audience had all drifted home. Some had miles of hard ground to cover but time was meaningless and they were floating airily, borne along on the wings of myth, metaphor and the magic of Shakespeare.

  As the chime for midnight counted twelve, the Countess donned her warmest fur cloak over the top of her silk nightdress and navigated her way to the west wing. She had a vague idea of the direction since she had visited Dr Watson’s bedroom during the hours between the rehearsal and the play to ask if he would mind if Fedir slept in his adjoining dressing room since the doctor did not have a valet of his own who would normally occupy the space.

  Bluish moonlight shone a beam through the un-shuttered windows and helped to guide her, but she knew her way around large country houses, having spent most of her life in one or another of them. Unmarried women were generally housed in the east wing, bachelors in the west wing, married couples and family members in the south wing, and servants and children in Siberia. The double-storied entrance hall was the place to head. It was the terminus from which all paths radiated.

  She had tip-toed to the end of the east corridor when she heard footsteps on the servants’ stairs and ducked back into a bathroom. Through a crack in the doorway she watched as Carter Dee wearing a purple velvet smoking jacket, a chartreuse cravat and tartan pyjama pants slipped quietly into his sister’s bedroom.

  When the coast was clear she continued. A few moments later she arrived in the upper gallery of the alabaster entrance hall and realized that she and Mr Dee weren’t the only ones unable to sleep. Someone was stealing across the hall, moving swiftly, a man with long blond hair. She assumed the Viking was on his way to a midnight tryst. She hid behind a pillar and waited for him to disappear.

  She began skirting the galleried landing when she heard the soft but distinctive rustle of satin and pressed herself into a niche featuring a statue of Robbie Burns. A heartbeat later Miss O’Hara flew past her and stole down the stairs like a perfumed ghost.

  No sooner had she reached the spot where the stately stairs met the landing than she spotted a slender wraith wending her way upward and leapt back into Robbie’s niche. It was Miss Lambert with a glass of warm milk. She knew the milk was warm because a cloth was wrapped around the glass to stop it scalding. Miss Lambert had probably been down to the kitchen to warm it up for Lady Moira. Yes, the young woman entered the first room to the left of the landing – a prime position for a bedroom and presumably the dowager’s former boudoir.

  She waited until the door closed then proceeded to the vestibule where several passages intersected and where a narrow spiral staircase led to the tower where his lordship had his private study. Male voices filtered down. She paused to listen and recognized Lord Cruddock’s slu
rred baritone and the deep huskiness of the Rajah. They were conducting a late night meeting. She moved on.

  The west wing with its dearth of windows was darker and more masculine, suits of medieval armour abounded. She was almost to the threshold of Dr Watson’s bedchamber when she heard a noise that sounded like a door opening and closing and took shelter behind a shiny knight with sword in hand. As she held her breath a figure crept past her. It was Mr Bancoe wearing a baggy red dressing gown, mismatched golfing socks and a ridiculous bed cap with a pom-pom. He was creeping soundlessly toward the bachelors’ stairs that led directly to the billiard room.

  Was no one asleep!

  The one person she expected to encounter in her nocturnal wandering was Mr Chandrapur, but the shadow cat was nowhere to be seen. Could it be that he was tucked up into bed for once? Or was he hiding in the dark, watching, waiting…all-seeing yet unseen?

  Dr Watson did not believe in locking his door unless necessary. She let herself in and guided by grunts and snorts proceeded to the four-poster to give him a gentle shake.

  “What the deuce!” he gagged, flailing his arms in an effort to fend off the assassin disguised in a bear suit.

  “Hush!” she chided as she clicked on a bedside lamp and pushed back her fur hood to reveal a cascade of brunette tresses. “Calm down.”

  He fell back on the pillow with a groan and pulled the blankets back over his head. “Turn off that blasted light! And go away!”

  “I came to speak to you about Mad Mother MacBee.”

  “Forget MacBee! You’re the one who’s mad! Get thee gone, woman!”

  His rebuke was a mere bagatelle. Her armour of self-esteem was impenetrable, her measure of self-importance limitless and her determination undaunted.

  “I think there is going to be another murder tonight.”

  That brought him round. He lowered the blanket and hoisted himself onto his elbows. He was wearing flannel pyjamas with grey and red stripes. “All right, I’m listening. Did you get wind of some plot?”