The Lammas Curse (32 page)

Mr Chandrapur returned from the
garden to report that he had found no one lurking outside. The
slate-paved terrace meant it was impossible to check for
footprints, but morning might reveal some clue that could not be
discerned under cover of darkness.

Servants came bearing tea trays
and a drinks trolley laden with alcoholic beverages. Cigars were
lit by several of the men who needed to keep their hands busy and
everyone proffered a theory:

“A trick of the misty moonlight
reflected in the curvature of the glass.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised to
find it was down to a few scampish tricksters from
The
Quotidienne
having some fun at our expense. Rogues and scumbags
– the lot of ’em.”

“Someone with a grudge against
his lordship – a disgruntled tenant farmer or ex-servant is usually
behind such shenanigans – mark my words.”

“Last month there was a fire at
the lunatic asylum in Duns. Madmen are often drawn to places where
murders have occurred and go in for senseless frightening
jackanapes. It gives them a sickening thrill.”

“Some seabirds from the Orkneys
with salt-encrusted feathers – that explains the sparkly glint. Our
imaginations did the rest.”

“Bats – they were bats. The
poor creatures can lose their sense of direction in certain
weather, and the way the candlelight reflected off their velvet
wings did the rest.”

“I thought they were fireflies.
Wrong season, I know, but it was unseasonably warm last summer and
some may have survived into autumn. The curved glass would have
magnified their iridescence. They are quite magical.”

“If we are talking insects then
I would say moths. They are attracted to the light. It is a simple
explanation but the simple explanation is often the best according
to William of Occam.”

“Snowflakes swirling on the
north wind. Occam would find that simple enough.”

“Witchcraft should not be
discounted. Witches cavort with Lucifer and he employs supernatural
powers to confound those dabbling in the dark arts.”

“Oh, tosh! It was a message
from the spirit world:

The whitebird calls
tomorrow,

The redbird smiles hollow,

The blackbird cries sorrow,

The bluebird will follow…the
tiara will soon be found.”

Catherine and Carter Dee
teed-off at 9.30 in thick fog. A large crowd of locals bolstered by
reporters, photographers and sketch artists followed the game from
fairway to fairway, gathering strength and number as the game
unfolded and the fog lifted. Those of morbid persuasion were hoping
to stumble upon a dead body but the only sensation came at the end
of the eighteen holes when Catherine out-scored her brother by a
whacking eleven shots. Carter proved to be a gracious loser. He
bear-hugged his sister and lifted her off the ground and swung her
round and called for three cheers…Hip, hip, hooray!

“Lesser than yet greater,”
remarked Dr Watson. “What a jolly good sport! I am ashamed to say I
had him pegged all wrong. By the way, I noticed you were the only
person
not
to proffer an explanation about the strange
visitation at the window during the séance.”

“I had my back to the window,”
reminded the Countess, busy scanning for a furtive figure clad in
Black Watch tartan. None could be seen and yet the Countess felt
the palpable presence of a giant blackbird watching from a
distance, training a beady eye from on high. “The wind is picking
up. Shall we head for home? We can partake of a late lunch. I
believe Mrs Ross is making kidney pie.”

His stomach gave an
appreciative rumble. “A short kip will go down well after lunch.
Instruct Xenia to have your overnight bags packed by six o’clock.
We must leave Graymalkin no later than half past six.”

“How many wedding guests is his
lordship expecting?” asked the Countess, wondering how difficult it
would be to steer the judge away from the Earl and Countess of
Lomond, Lord and Lady Trefoyles, et al.

“Not as many as originally
expected. Last night, whilst you were gallivanting around the
castle, Miss Lambert informed me in confidence that most of the
wedding invitations were politely declined. Lord and Lady
Trefoyles, for instance, suddenly found themselves committed to an
engagement in London. Others suddenly came down with a mysterious
malady or found circumstances necessitated them travelling abroad
at short notice. The inference being that they are either too
frightened to attend, unsurprising after four murders, or too
scandalised, meaning they do not wish to bless the marriage of a
lord to an actress.”

“What puritans! Last month le
Duc de Beauvoisin married a trapeze artiste from a circus and last
summer the Prince of San Marlino married his laundress!”

“The Scottish Borders is not
Paris or Monaco or Odessa. Once her ladyship produces an heir and
disports herself with
noblesse oblige
things will change. In
the meantime, the wedding guests will consist of local gentry
rather than aristocracy, same as the night of the Scottish
play.”

“Yes, I did wonder about that
at the time,” she mused, before finishing on a lighter note,
“Perhaps Lord Cruddock’s noble friends are also terrified of Loch
Nessie!”

Gurged with golden light, the
chapel had undergone a re-metamorphosis from theatre to place of
worship and was aglow with luminescence from a hundred beeswax
tapers. It was a quiet ceremony devoid of showy splendour. The
bride wore a white wool cape edged in ermine that swept the floor.
She teamed it with a gown cut from local tartan which earned
unexpected praise from the dowager. But it was the Lammas tiara
that drew everyone’s gaze. It had been miraculously discovered on
the library table by the liveried butler one hour prior to the
wedding as he made his rounds to check that everything had been set
right from the night before.

Lola O’Hara was luminous with
rapture at the last minute miracle, and for the first time in her
life rendered humble and speechless.

The grand ballroom had been
spruced up with silk divans, scented candles and an orchestra. A
traditional Highland fling kicked off proceedings. Lord Cruddock,
handsome in kilt and sporran, was persuaded to join in and proved
remarkably sprightly for a man in his fifties.

Dr Watson, equally handsome in
his own kilt was for once in his element in a social setting. He
and the Countess danced three dances in a row.

“I can’t remember the last time
I had such a good time,” he enthused, face sheened with sweat,
clapping in time to the music and beaming broadly each time they
took a breather. “I claim you for the Scottish reel – don’t
forget!”

“I’m looking forward to it,”
she beamed back blissfully. “In the meantime why don’t you ask Mrs
Ardkinglas for the next dance?”

“She has been claimed by Mr
Horsefield. I might ask Miss Lambert instead.”

“I think you are too late.
Hamish Ross has staked his claim. What about Mrs Ross? Red and
green tartan has done wonders for her complexion, she looks ten
years younger.”

He spotted Miss Dee striding
towards them. “Yes, I think I’ll go and find Mrs Ross,” he said
quickly. “By the way, your coronet of wildflowers is very fetching.
Purple heather is my favourite flower.” And off he hurried.

“Guess what?” Miss Dee
addressed eagerly to the Countess. “A messenger just arrived from
Duns with a handful of telegrams. Good news travels fast. I have
just received multiple invitations to play tournaments in Cape
Town, New York, South Carolina and Sydney. Isn’t that thrilling?
I’m so excited. The world has really opened up for me.”

The Countess did not have the
heart to spoil Catherine’s moment in the sun and gave her a
sisterly hug.

“Carter is thrilled too!” Miss
Dee continued to gush. “He is going to come with me to New York. He
intends to find work on the stage. I never knew how desperately he
wanted to be an actor. Everything has worked out so well. Oh, drat!
Here comes the Rajah. I think he is going to ask you for a dance.
I’m on cloud nine. I shall float off before he gets here!”

The Rajah did not ask the
Countess to dance. He found the occidental passion for jigging just
as absurd as the passion for spiceless meat for dinner and charred
bread for breakfast.

“What do you think of the
Govinda tiara?”

She gazed at the bride whirling
across the dance floor, billowing rainbows under a coronet of
stars. “
Vraiment, c’est magnifique
!”

Some dusky skin set off a row
of lovely white teeth and a proud smile. “Yours on your wedding day
- but for longer than one night. I sail tomorrow and the tiara
sails with me. Let me know if you change your mind. My offer
remains open. Come to India for a vacation. Bring Dr Watson. The
doors of my palace likewise remain open. And to prove that not all
of India is dry and dusty I will show you where tea is grown. I
have a plantation in the hills. The setting will take your breath
away.” He offered his arm. “Shall we take a turn on the terrace? It
is a cloudless night and I am told the bonfires can be seen for
miles and miles. You can tell to me the story of Mr Guido
Fawkes.”

Maw Crag plateau provided the
perfect vantage point for viewing the necklace of bonfires that
flared across the land, and while she told him about the plot to
blow up parliament she noticed two figures sprinting away from the
castle - two carefree lovers, perhaps? And why not? It was a
perfect night for
l’amour
!

“We also celebrate a Hindu
festival on the fifth of November,” said the Rajah. “It is part of
Diwali where sisters honour their brothers.”

India was sounding more and
more magical but as he lifted her hand to his lips they heard an
embarrassed cough from somewhere close. It was time for the
Scottish reel.

The Countess left the Rajah on
the terrace and re-entered the ballroom on the arm of Dr Watson and
when she saw who was lined up for the reel she realized that the
young lovers sprinting toward the abbey ruins could not have been
Miss Lambert and Mr Ross as she had been quick to assume. Of
course! The figures were exceedingly tall, and besides, they
weren’t holding hands! It must have been Catherine and Carter
Dee.

Dr Watson began explaining the
rules of the reel “Always join a reel from the bottom. The angling
of the shoulders indicates the direction -”

“Give me a moment,” she
interrupted. “Let me watch for a bit and then I will have it.”

“That will never work,” he
grumbled.

After a few moments she said,
“Incline head, curtsey, travel in opposite direction, return,
repeat, join hands, stamp, right, left, right, clap three times,
advance, under arch, travel, repeat, 4, 8, 16, 32. It is all a
matter of mathematics.”

And by golly she did have
it!

A sumptuous wedding feast had
been set up on trestle tables in the alabaster hall. Guests helped
themselves to an array of hot and cold dishes then dispersed to
find a seat. Some went outside to admire the bonfires, others
drifted into the library. The formal rooms in the south wing had
been locked up. Time was of the essence when the Countess cornered
Lord Cruddock at the top of the stairs a short time later.

“I would like you to inform
your wife and to put it about amongst the guests that the bride
will be spending the wedding night in the husband’s bedchamber,”
she stated, just like that.

Naturally, he took umbrage.
“Tradition calls for the husband to go to the bride’s bedchamber
and I will not be dictated to in my own home on my wedding night by
-”

“If you want to know who stole
the tiara you will cede to my request.”

He expelled a weighty
exasperated breath. “What do you intend?”

“I don’t have time to explain
the fullness of my plan,” she said, ignoring a strong whiff of
whiskey, “but the real tiara will not be put at risk.”

“You guarantee this?”

“You have my word.”

“So the real tiara can be
placed back in the priest’s hole in my study before we retire for
the night?” he clarified to satisfy himself.

“No, your wife must leave it on
her dressing table before she goes to your bedchamber.”

“Are you mad! I will not risk
it!”

She had no choice but to stick
her neck out. “Tomorrow morning I will reveal not only the name of
the thief, I will reveal who murdered the three golfers and the
caddy, and you will still have your tiara!”

Shocked, he drew back and
almost toppled down the stairs. Several faces turned to look as he
caught hold of the bannister to steady himself. “I hope to God you
are telling the truth,” he hissed angrily as he commenced his
descent, mumbling profanities.

Next, the Countess went to find
Judge Cruddock. He was seated on a garden bench at the far end of
the terrace, a glass of champagne in one hand and a mutton chop in
the other. Nessie was under the bench gnawing on a bone.
Unsurprisingly, he was without company.

“Entailzie,” she said as she
plonked herself on the bench, guarding her ankles from the fangs
being honed to sharpness. “You were about to explain the term to me
yesterday.”

“Ah, dear Countess. Yes, yes,
please join me,” he invited needlessly.

“Entailzie?” she prodded.

“It is a Scottish term for what
is entailed…”

He was longwinded and most of
it she already knew from her time in Devon solving the Baskerville
case, but when he began to outline something called abeyance she
was all ears.

Some words are rarely used
except in the negative. People are rarely described as couth or
gruntled, merely uncouth and disgruntled. And a plan never ravels,
it only unravels…

By ten o’clock almost everyone
was in the breakfast room discussing the wedding in exalted tones
when they were interrupted by a high-pitched scream. It came from
the top of the stairs where the bride, wearing a transparent
peignoir over a silky slip and looking like a beguiling ghost, was
wailing like a demented banshee. It soon became clear that the
tiara she had deposited on her dressing table prior to going to her
husband’s bedchamber had disappeared during the night. Lord
Cruddock turned purple with rage and was about to unleash the full
force of his fury when the Countess directed a wink his way and the
royal flush faded to a coral hue.