The Lammas Curse

by Anna Lord

  As soon as the Countess tossed back her champagne she announced she was going to storm the inner sanctum. Rather than being left to his own devices, Dr Watson decided to join the two unlucky golfers in the billiard room. They had not out-scored the Dees that morning despite being granted an extra round and were probably drowning their sorrows while sinking some balls on a less hazardous green.

  Halfway across the alabaster hall the Countess bumped into the Rajah. He was on his way to the drawing room, having been informed by his factotum that the Countess had arrived. She promptly steered him into the library and closed the door. He thought he might be in luck – a bird in the hand and all that - but quickly discovered otherwise. There was no time to beat about the bush let alone fondle any plumage.

  “You did not appear concerned by the theft of the tiara?” she stated boldly without preamble.

  “Oh, that,” he said dismissively, helping himself to a cigar from the humidor, “no, it did not unduly worry me.”

  “May I hazard a guess?”

  He shrugged his shoulders as he lit his cigar using a faggot from the fire. “Certainly.”

  “You instructed your factotum to steal the tiara with his lordship’s blessing so that he did not have to explain to his wife and mother that he had sold it to you because he is bankrupt.”

  The Rajah blew a furl of smoke into the darksome air and laughed. “A cunning plan! I grant you that. I wish I had thought of it. It might have been much less costly. Alas! Not at all. I do not know who stole the tiara but I do know it was not my factotum at my behest.”

  The Countess looked crestfallen. “But, in that case, why are you not more concerned? The Govinda diamond: a family heirloom…”

  “And a fake.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The tiara that was stolen was a fake.”

  “I see, but that begs the question - where is the real one?”

  “It is in Lord Cruddock’s private study. I have seen it with my own eyes and can attest that the diamonds are real, including the magnificent jewel in the crown – the Govinda.”

  “But what happens when the thief discovers he has a fake tiara in his possession?”

  “Or her.”

  “What?”

  “You are presuming the thief is a man.”

  “Yes, yes, I guess so.”

  “A thief is hardly likely to make a fuss and complain the tiara he or she has stolen is a fake. I think we can safely assume no one except the thief will know there was a fake at all, which is unfortunate for his lordship since he was hoping to fool his wife and mother for many years to come. But as soon as the bride makes an appearance wearing the real tiara, the thief will know the one in his possession is a fake, and when the real tiara goes with me back to its rightful home in India his lordship will then have some explaining to do. By the by, it is not merely a priceless heirloom, it is more than that. It is a talisman, an amulet, an omen of luck and power and divine right. When I return with the Govinda diamond in my grasp the uprising in my homeland will be quelled and peace will be restored.”

  “Who knew Lord Cruddock had a fake tiara?”

  “Discounting the Jew who manufactured it, two people – his lordship and myself.”

  “What about your devoted half-brother?”

  The Rajah shook his head as his hand drifted to the jewelled dagger at his side.

  No love lost there!

  “I need to speak to Lord Cruddock in private,” she declared as she whirled out the door.

  There was no time to lose before everyone drifted to the drawing room and her absence would be noticed. Without bothering to knock she pushed open the door to the sanctum at the top of the spiral staircase. It was a small hexagonal chamber, darkly panelled. Lord Cruddock was seated in a tapestried wing chair behind an old desk, slumped on his elbows, his head supported in his hands. On the desk was a bottle of whiskey and a glass, one was half full, the other was half empty. He looked like a man who had reached the end of his tether, not a bridegroom on the eve of his wedding to a ravishing beauty. The depth of his despair would make it easier to dispense with courtesies and falsehoods.

  “Where is the real tiara?”

  Startled, he looked up quickly then swore under his breath. “That bloody darkie! He can’t keep his mouth shut! Close the door and keep your voice down!”

  She closed the door and repeated the question in a lowered tone.

  “Not that it is any business of yours, Countess Volodymyrovna,” he ground out harshly, sounding each syllable of her name with a disapproving timbre, “but since you ask so politely, it is in a secret compartment directly behind the large oil painting of Cruddock Castle executed by Septimus Decimus Cox. But let me draw your attention to the smaller painting on the opposite wall – Lammas Castle Farm, an unprepossessing structure much like Graymalkin, yet solid as a rock. Gothic revival decoration is like icing on a wedding cake. Underneath the icing you will find the thick cake batter and in the yeasty mix studded with raisins and dates, dozens of secret chambers and priest’s holes.”

  “Who knows it is hidden there?”

  “Just me and that bloody darkie!”

  “And your mother?”

  “Absolutely not!” he said fiercely.

  “Your future wife?”

  “No!” he repudiated explosively. “And I take umbrage at the inference.”

  The Countess paced to the lancet window and perched herself on the mullioned window ledge, giving him a moment to contain his intemperance. “What I fail to understand is that if you had a fake tiara of such excellent quality as to fool your fiancé for weeks and a host of eagle-eyed reporters and photographers for several hours why did you not allow the Rajah to take the real one as soon as the deal was struck. Why the delay? Why the pretence?”

  Lord Cruddock straightened his back in the stiff-backed chair. “Pride,” he said. “Family honour,” he added in a hollow tone. “I wanted my future wife to be married wearing the real tiara not a fake one. I intended to switch the fake one in her room for the real one and then switch them back without her being any the wiser. Is that so hard to understand?”

  The Countess was about to ask whether he trusted his fiancé implicitly but changed her mind at the last moment. “You love her very dearly?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “Do you think she returns your affection in equal measure?”

  “What are you getting at with these impertinent questions?” he slammed, purpling with rage.

  “I’m trying to grasp what might happen when the thief realizes he or she has a fake tiara.”

  “Oh, I see,” he digested, swallowing his distemper. “Heaven help me if that happens before the wedding. Yes, heaven help me if my fiancé calls the whole thing off. But whatever you may think, I am no love-struck fool. I know my fiancé is having an affair with Mr Larssensen. He was her lover before I proposed marriage. I know the baby she is carrying is his.”

  “And it does not bother you?”

  “Of course it does! But I must turn a blind eye. I am unable to father children of my own and I want an heir. It is as simple as that. And before you start lecturing me on hereditary law let me point out to you that half the peers of the realm are bastards and always have been.”

  “Point taken,” she ceded. “One more question before I leave you to yourself.” And your whiskey bottle! “Do you think anyone is out to destroy you?”

  He looked stunned. “Destroy me? What in heaven’s name for?”

  “The tea trade venture in India that went horribly wrong perhaps, from which you profited enormously.”

  “Good God! No! That was years ago! No, no, this business with the tiara is opportunistic greed, pure and simple.”

  “And the four deaths?”

  “Don’t you mean three?”

  “I think the death of Mr Brown is related – that makes it four.”

  “The first three deaths were unfortunate, tragic even, and though I may have draw
n my own conclusions privately, the same as everyone else, I cannot give voice to what I think publicly. I left that to Scotland Yard and will do so again with the fourth death. I refuse to speculate further. I think it best if you do the same. I suggest you join the other guests in the drawing room, Countess Volodymyrovna.”

  Summarily dismissed, the Countess had every intention of going immediately to the drawing room as directed by her host but as she descended the stairs she kept picturing the oil painting by Septimus Decimus Cox and the rows of chimney stacks against the louring skyline, and a random connection was made. By the time she reached the base of the stairs she had formulated half a plan. She proceeded to the library, hoping it would be empty. It was, and she went straight to the bell pull. When the butler appeared, she requested her maid and manservant be sent to her without delay.

  Fedir and Xenia never questioned their mistress, no matter how outrageous her requests. They listened attentively and followed her bizarre instructions to the letter.

  By the time the Countess arrived slightly breathless in the drawing room everyone was in the process of transferring themselves to the dining room. She caught the disapproving glare of Dr Watson and did her best to ignore him as she endeavoured to snag a seat next to Judge Cruddock but the Rajah engaged her in conversation and Miss Lambert claimed the seat instead.

  The topic of the missing tiara was avoided throughout dinner. Everyone was at pains to not cause offence. Lord Cruddock opened with a toast to Catherine and Carter Dee and wished them luck for the final play-off. He then offered a toast to his fiancé and rabbited on about what a lucky man he was. At this stage he touched briefly on the tiara, saying he was sure it would turn up in some unlikely spot in time for the wedding. Of course it would! He would make sure of it! But what about the thief? How would he or she react? The Countess studied the faces of those present, one in particular, but no flitching lip or flickering eye betrayed itself. She would have to wait for confirmation from Fedir and Xenia.

  This arrived sooner than expected. As the ladies sashayed to the music room for coffee and cocoa, they passed Xenia in the vestibule waiting for her mistress, a fresh linen handkerchief monogrammed with a double V in her hands – a sign that the Countess’s suspicions had proved correct and that the plan she had hatched was taking shape. Or, in the parlance of Sherlock Holmes, the game was afoot.

  Miss Lambert was taking charge of the beverages. Miss Dee was tickling some ivories. Miss O’Hara was seated away from the fire, fanning her face with a silk fan, flipping through a copy of The Era, a popular magazine for actors and actresses with all the latest revues and backstage gossip. Lady Moira was ensconced in the armchair nearest the fire, on the point of dozing off. It was time to lift the curtain on the next act in this drama.

  The Countess plonked herself opposite the grande-dame. “I wonder if a séance might reveal the name of the thief?” she posed in a quasi-curious monotone to no one in particular before replying to her own question. “Oh, no, probably not,” she sighed heavily, feigning a yawn. “It is most unlikely we will ever know who stole it.”

  Lady Moira’s eyes flew open and her cobwebby voice was honed to sharpness. “Why be so quick to dismiss the idea of a séance? Are you afraid of what it might reveal? The theft of the Lammas tiara is no mere trifle, it is grand larceny, and though my fool of a son may assert the tiara will just turn up like a lost button or an odd sock, it is wishful thinking! Ha! A séance is just the thing for finding our culprit.” Wasting no time, the old lady turned to her paid companion. “Miss Lambert, arrange at once for the library to be made ready. You know what is required. Instruct MacMurtry to make sure the fire is giving off plenty of heat and thoroughly stoked. We do not want the room filling with smoke. A window or two needs to be left open. Not too much. We don’t want to create a wind tunnel. A larger candelabra, this time. The ormolu piece from the dining room will do nicely. See to it at once.”

  Miss O’Hara promptly closed her magazine and pushed to her feet. “I shall inform the men in the billiard room that there is to be a séance,” she offered generously, addressing her future mother-in-law. “Thirty minutes? Is that sufficient time, do you think?”

  “Yes, excellent,” responded Lady Moira, glancing at the carriage clock on the mantel. “We will congregate in the library in half an hour. And inform that Methodist ninny if he chooses not to come we will assume he is guilty of the theft. That should get him there! Twelve chairs, Miss Lambert,” she directed. “Hurry along, young lady, don’t stand idle while there are things to be done.”

  The Countess had two reasons for instigating a séance. The first was to put into play a certain turn of events and observe the reactions of the characters and perhaps force the hand of the protagonist. The second was to arrange a tête-à-tête with Judge Cruddock - an impossibility with the men were holed up in the billiard room and the ladies closeted in the music room; and though the Countess would have preferred that conversation to be held in private, at least the dimensions of the library would afford them a little distance.

  Perfect! The judge was standing at the far end of the eighty foot long library. He was scanning a row of leather-bound dusty tomes.

  “Bonum vesperum,” she said by way of introduction for they had not been formally introduced though they had recently dined at the same table. “Haec te scire in pulvare cautes timirent?”

  “Et omnis scienta est in pluverem,” the old man returned, studying her through his lorgnon à cordon. “Countess Volodymyrovna, I am enchanted to make your acquaintance. I recently heard some splendid things about you from a mutual friend, le Comte d’Aubrey, and may I compliment you on your Latin.”

  “Gratias tibi benigni, amice mi periti,” she returned, shamelessly showing off before launching into French for more of the same – her linguistic vanity knowing no bounds. “Ah, comment va mon cher venerable ami, le comte? Est-il encore la chasse par tous les temps?”

  The judge chuckled. “Mais oui, surtout en automne.”

  She switched to English. “Allow me to digress, I recently read A Short History of English Jurisprudence by Lord Cosimo Burbage. The prose was riveting! I would be delighted to have your thoughts on his chapter contrasting the influence of Seneca and Cicero, and their respective contribution to English law. Which do you consider the more influential?”

  Woolly brows drew down pensively as he drew breath, ready to expound on the subject at length but she cut him off, casting an exaggerated glance over her shoulder at the other guests, some already taking their seats at the séance table, where a candelabra with five candles danced in the draught from the bow window.

  “I fear we will be reprimanded for our tardiness,” she said. “We simply must continue this conversation tomorrow. However, there was another point of law I was hoping you might clarify for me that I’m sure will not take up nearly so much time as we promenade d’ici-la.”

  “Always glad to clarify a point of law for an attractive young lady, though I must admit I cannot recall the last time such a thing happened. Ask away!”

  “I was wondering if 100 years was relevant in any way pertaining to hereditary law or baronies of tenure or some such thing.”

  “What an odd question,” he said, sounding more amused than vexed. “But in answer to your question, yes, of course, definitely relevant in Scottish Law - quite different to English Law. Oh, yes, quite different.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “Entailzie.”

  “Entailzie?”

  “In Scottish Law we have what is called -”

  “Oh, do come and join us,” intoned Lady Moira employing a long-suffering drone. “We are all waiting and the spirits are restless. Join hands everyone and whatever happens do not speak,” she warned. “And do not break the circle of hands.”

  One extra person at table and they would have made a coven - a fact not unnoticed by several of the hand-holders, including Mr Bancoe who had not dared to absent himself despite his evangelical aversion to ho
cussing and pocussing.

  Lady Moira began the mind-numbing, mnemonic humming and soon fell into a hypnotic trance. Her voice, when it came, was soft, strained and sibilant.

  “Come, spirits, attend to mortal thoughts,

  expose dark deeds and human mischief,

  peel back thick night,

  clarify the dun smoke of hell,

  summon all-seeing couriers of sightless substance

  whisper in our ears the deaf message –

  who snatched the fateful crown?”

  Five winking waxlights flickered fitfully and almost blew out as a cold draught brushed each cheek but no one flinched. All twelve sat mesmerized, transfixed, rendered mute by the metaphysical world of make-believe and the marvel of metaphor that transported them to the kingdom called Imagination.

  The sceptic, the believer, the naïf, the dreamer, the drunkard, the schemer, the strong, the weak, the lover, the fool, the liar, the thief, all were caught in the sticky web of spirit words.

  “Hark! Enter the fatal bellman: Duncan lies dead, his noble body steeped in bloody gore…”

  There was a gasp or two and a collective corseting of fingers.

  “The trumpet-tongued angel cries and cries,

  As the fruitless crown floats upon the dark sea,

  From here to hell and high water…”

  Caught in a sudden up-draught, the candles flared and spluttered and two were extinguished, their wicks streaming a ghostly spiral up to the coffered ceiling.