The Lammas Curse (9 page)

Third was the Rajah of Govinda.
His fierce expression, his mahogany skin, his exotic accent, all
contrived to make him a striking and impressive figure, once met,
never forgotten. He had a lethal handshake and a deadly-looking
ceremonial dagger attached to an elaborate gold belt that circled a
sumptuously embroidered tunic. The collarless tunic came to
mid-calf, and the neckline and cuffs were banded with semi-precious
gemstones – beryl, cornelian, garnet and sardonyx, to name but a
few. A pair of tight trousers covered his legs and some jewelled
slippers covered his feet. But it was the turban that caught the
eye and held it. It wrapped neatly around his noble head and in the
forefront sat a huge ruby brooch the size of a bird’s egg which
pinned into place a shortened white peacock feather that gave the
disconcerting impression of a third eye.

Fourth and fifth were the
platinum twins – Catherine and Carter Dee, looking as primped and
pampered as two puffed-up poodles parading down the Champs Elysees
on a lazy Sunday afternoon, gazing with disdain at all the
interlopers befouling the pavement.

Sixth and seventh were the
golfers – Bruce Bancoe and Lars Larssensen. The Scot resembled a
dour, tough, wind-blown, weathered, North Sea fisherman with a
grizzled grey beard and a thatch of wild grey hair to match it. He
could best be described as a trawler-man in a dinner suit - an
ill-fitting costume which needed constant adjustment, hence the
need to tug at his cuffs, button and unbutton his jacket, and
smooth down his slightly-too-short trousers. The Norwegian
resembled a strong, stocky, tough Viking warrior with longish sandy
hair and a lantern jaw that underscored a rugged, angular,
chiselled, devastatingly masculine profile that immediately caused
less endowed men to feel inferior and effeminate. His muscular
physique looked as if it might burst out of its constricting
formality any minute.

Eighth and ninth, were the
white queen of all things weird, and her lovely lady-in-waiting,
respectively, Lady Moira and Miss Adeline Lambert.

It was an eclectic gathering,
not the sort to be found in the fashionable salons of Paris, the
drawing rooms of Vienna, the palazzos of Rome or the summer palaces
of St Petersburg – but this was the Scottish Borders. And so the
scene was set, the dramatis personae were assembled and the play
commenced.

“It must be Fate!” Miss
O’Hara’s sonorous voice, softened by a seductive Irish lilt, sent
Dr Watson into rapture as the guests paired off and filed into the
grand dining room two by two, eschewing formal hierarchy. “We were
short of players for our little performance and suddenly here you
are!”

“Performance?” said the doctor,
hanging off her every word like an adoring lap dog.

“Let me explain,” intervened
Lord Cruddock, as his guests circled a large mahogany dinner table
that sparkled under a lustrous Waterford chandelier that had
recently been electrified. “When the golf tournament was abruptly
halted by the police investigation, and the promotion of my new
golf course was overshadowed by the unfortunate accidents, my
brilliant fiancé dreamed up the clever idea to stage a play and
invite some newspaper reporters, thus turning bad news into good
publicity.”

“
Un bon idée
,” praised
the Countess, noting how the son deftly avoided his mother’s dark
looks while smiling lovingly at his future wife. “Which play?”

“Which play indeed,” exclaimed
the Rajah of Govinda with a husky laugh, choosing the seat next to
the Countess, “but the one and only Scottish play – Shakespeare’s
best!”

“Of course!” nodded the doctor,
gazing at the Irish actress like a love-struck puppy. “The nameless
play!”

“Lady Macbeth is my most
celebrated role,” Lola confirmed with a modest smile and an
immodest flutter of long lashes taking her seat not at the opposite
head of the table but to the right of her fiancé. “Out damned spot!
Out I say! I have performed it so many times I could do it in my
sleep.”

“I do recall,” added the
dowager dryly, who occupied the seat at the high end of the table
until the fifth of November, “that a Dublin critic once described
your performance in exactly those terms.”

“That’s what critics are paid
to write,” interceded Mr Larssensen, coming to the actress’s
rescue. “If they write that the play was superb and the acting
flawless no one will be interested in reading their reviews.”

“Agreed!” agreed Mr Bancoe.
“Bad news sells more newspapers than good. Just look at how the
public couldn’t get enough information about the sinking of that
ferry in the Irish Sea. The higher the body count the more the
masses clamoured for details.”

Oyster soup was served for
starters. It was dinner
à la russe
with individual courses
following one after another.

Lola O’Hara, heartened that the
two golfers had leapt to her defence so chivalrously, rose above
the acid tongue of her future mother-in-law and returned to her
opening line.

“Providence must have brought
you here tonight,” she declared, shining some benevolent limelight
on Dr Watson. “You can play the role of Seyton, Macbeth’s servant.
You won’t have too many lines to learn and you should be able to
memorise your part by the time the curtain rises. How does that
sound?”

“That sounds, er, fine, and
when exactly will the curtain rise?” the doctor croaked, swallowing
dry. The first time he appeared on stage was in a Nativity play at
Sunday school. He was a donkey in more ways than one who neighed
when he should have hee-hawed. The audience burst into fits of
laughter, Mary began to cry and dropped baby Jesus. Jesus knocked
over a Christmas candle and the manger went up in flames. The
second time was in sixth grade. Miss Drake, the headmistress who
never did things by halves, decided to turn the muddy village green
into a giant stage to celebrate May Day. She had a giant maypole
erected in the middle of the stage. He was skipping in time to the
music when he realized his shoelace was undone. Alas! Down came the
troupe of dancers tangled in ribbons and bows, and down crashed the
giant maypole faster than the mast of a Spanish galleon the day the
Armada was reduced to toothpicks. It missed Miss Drake by mere
inches. His mother never got over the shame.

There was no third time.

“October the 31
^st
,”
supplied Lord Cruddock.

“Halloween night of course!”
added the actress, flicking back her red mane with a theatrical
flourish, before looking directly across the table at the person
seated opposite whom Providence had dropped so opportunely into her
lap. “Countess Volodymyrovna can play one of the witches,” she
announced sweetly. “That means Catherine won’t have to play two
roles and she won’t need a costume change. She can concentrate on
playing Lady Macduff.”

“Oh, that’s such a relief!”
said Miss Dee. “It is confusing learning two sets of lines.”

“Oh tosh!” snorted the dowager.
“The witches hardly have any lines at all.”

“Double, double, toil and
trouble!” cackled Carter Dee, to take the heat off his sister
before pleading his own case. “I’d like to change my role too. I
could play Macduff.”

“We’ve discussed this before,”
snapped Lola haughtily. “It is better for the caddy, Mr MacDuff, to
play Macduff since it is his real name. It is less confusing.”

“Less confusing than what?”
argued Carter. “The audience won’t know his real name is
MacDuff!”

“But
we
will know,”
returned Lola, brooking no argument.

The conversation turned to how
quickly the links were drying out while the next course was
consumed – Coquilles St Jacques seasoned with Indian curry and
herbed butter as a nod to their exotic Indian guest. It was Carter
Dee who steered the conversation back to the Scottish play when the
pan-fried calves’ liver on a bed of braised cabbage arrived.

“I don’t want to be one of the
witches and that’s that. I’m a man! You cannot unsex me!”

“Steady on, young chap,” warned
Lord Cruddock.

“Shakespeare always had men
playing women’s roles,” explained the Rajah knowledgably. “Women
were forbidden from acting on the stage in Elizabethan Times.”

“Give me strength! Make thick
my blood!” muttered Carter. “That was hundreds of years ago.
Besides, it’s alright for you. You’re playing Siward - the bold,
brave and manly English General! You’re not being forced to play an
old crone!”

“Just think of the fun you
could have with it, my boy,” suggested his lordship. “Be a man and
play a witch.”

“There is nothing wrong with
playing a witch,” huffed the dowager.

Carter laughed harshly. “Well,
if anyone should know it would be Hecate, the queen of
witches!”

“Carter!” shouted Lord
Cruddock, slamming his fist on the table so forcefully the crystal
glasses juddered. “Apologise at once!”

“It’s alright, Duncan,” calmed
the dowager, not taking offence. “There will come a time when to
call a woman a witch will be a compliment. Witches were wise women,
the midwives and healers of their day, skilled in herb lore. They
were the forerunners to the doctors and botanists of today.”

“It is the tone of voice, not
the word that I find offensive,” replied the son to his mother.
“Yes, there will be a time for such a word but that time has not
yet come.” He turned to his god-son. “Carter!” he said sternly.

Carter flushed red as he
brought his wine glass to his lips with choppy hands. “I’m sorry,
Lady Moira,” he managed with sincerity before turning whiny. “I
just want even-handed justice. Everyone else is happy with their
role. I feel I have been reduced to a laughing stock. Why can’t the
three witches play the three witches?”

The servants arrived to clear
the plates. Wine glasses were replenished. Black pudding with pears
stewed in syrup arrived as a palate cleanser and conversation took
a pause.

“Ah!
Le boudin noir aux
poires
!” exclaimed the Rajah in impeccable French, lightening
the tone. “My compliments to your
chef francais
! I may steal
him from you when I leave! I have been searching for a good French
chef for months”

The palate cleanser went down a
treat and the empty plates were duly cleared. As soon as the
servants retreated it was the Countess who returned to the earlier
topic.

“Mr Dee,” she addressed
down-table, “I didn’t quite understand what you meant by your last
phrase – the three witches play the three witches?”

“My brother was referring to
three local women,” Miss Dee explained, adopting a neutral tone to
downplay the perceived offensiveness behind her brother’s words. “I
believe you have met two of them – Mrs Ardkinglas and Mrs
Ross.”

“Oh, yes,” the Countess
confirmed, “our housekeeper and the owner of the Marmion Hydro
Hotel. I presume they are identical twins.”

“There’s a third,” added Carter
portentously.

“You mean to say they are
triplets?” posed the Countess.

Carter nodded just as some
individual cheese soufflés arrived and everyone was momentarily
distracted by the fluffy fromage.

“Identical triplets are very
rare,” commented the doctor. “The third child doesn’t usually
survive the lengthy birthing process, or if they do they are often
retarded due to the lack of oxygen to the brain – or so goes
medical opinion.”

“The third sister,” asserted
Miss Dee, “lends support to your medical opinion. She lives wild in
a ramshackle hovel in Jackdaw Wood and is deemed to be a little
mad.”

“Mad Mother MacBee!” trilled
Carter in a sing-song snigger. “Mad Mother MacBee!”

“That is most unfair,”
interceded Miss Lambert, employing a defensive tone sharpened by
pity and chagrin. “Mother MacBee is not at all mad. I have
encountered her several times and she has appeared quite sane. If
she were rich she would be called eccentric, but because she is
poor and chooses to live alone she is called mad.”

“Pity- like the naked new-born
babe,” mocked Carter. “Bravo, Miss Lambert!”

Miss Lambert turned pink and
shrank back in her seat.

“Milk for gall, young lady,”
declared the dowager sternly. “And thou shalt get kings! Remember
that!”

Lord Cruddock suddenly snatched
up his glass of wine. “I propose a toast!” he trumpeted with gusto,
lifting his crystal beaker high in the air. “Let us lift our
chalices to our lips, good friends, and drink to the success of the
Lammermoor tournament, the Scottish play, and Scotland!”

“The Lammermoor tournament, the
Scottish play and Scotland!” they echoed in unison, dispelling the
rancour driving the conversation up to this point. Insults were
forgotten, all was forgiven, grievances were shelved and everyone
felt relieved, the tension in the air dissipated and radiant smiles
returned. It lasted until the next course – pan-roasted guinea fowl
with truffles and leeks, or as the Rajah pointed out –
blancs de
pintade aux truffes et poiraux
.

“You didn’t answer my earlier
question,” broached Carter, addressing Miss O’Hara. “Why can’t the
three witches play the three witches?”

“Oh for goodness sake!”
expelled his lordship brusquely, slapping his hand on the table,
though not as violently as before.

Lola placed her hand gently on
his. “It’s alright Duncan. I don’t mind answering,” she delivered
in a placating yet softly commanding tone, leaving no doubt as to
who would rule the roost once she had a gold band on her finger.
“
They
will not play the three witches because Miss Lambert,
Countess Volodymyrovna and Carter Dee - that’s you! - will play the
three witches. It is
my
play. I am directing and I what I
say goes.”

“It is not
your
play,”
countered Carter belligerently, staring blankly at his
blancs
. “It is William Shakespeare’s play.”