The Lammas Curse (31 page)

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 drawn 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 hocussing 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.

“Out, out, brief candle!
Double, double death!”

The Countess was seated
opposite Lady Moira and she could see reflected in the gilt-framed
mirror above the mantel what the others had not yet noticed. Four
birds were hovering outside the window – a white, a red, a black
and a blue bird.

One by one, the others saw them
too, all except Lady Moira who remained in a trance-like state,
staring blindly into the abyss. Hearts stopped and throats
constricted, fingers clenched and everyone blanched. And just when
everyone thought they’d had enough of the so-called spirit world
there appeared at the window a circlet of white stars, diamond
bright, winking at the night!

“My tiara!” screamed Lola
O’Hara, breaking the spell-spinning enchantment of the séance
before promptly fainting into her fiancé’s arms.

Miss Lambert gasped and swooned
and was caught by Judge Cruddock.

Dr Watson kicked back his chair
and raced toward the bow window. He almost collided with Mr Dee who
raced to check the mirror instead. Mr Larssensen shook the damask
curtains and stood on a small library ladder to run his hand along
the gilded pelmet, checking for hidden wires. Mr Bancoe checked
under the table for hidden box cameras. The Rajah ordered his
factotum (tucked discretely into a niche) to search the garden
then, himself, ran to help the Countess who was attempting to
transport Lady Moira - light-headed and rambling incoherently – to
an armchair. Someone called for brandy.

Miss Dee, thinking clearly as
usual, went to the bell pull to summon the butler. She then began
lighting candles, which helped to dispel the chaos.