The Lammas Curse (10 page)

Lola sighed expressively, her
ample bosom rising and falling to great effect and silent applause
from the men. “Must I remind you that it was I who arranged to
borrow the costumes from the Edinburgh Playhouse and that it was I
who arranged to borrow some scenery from the Glasgow Repertory
Company and that it was I who suggested this play in the first
place to rescue the golf tournament from imminent disaster.”

Carter had the good sense to
wait until the haunch of venison lavishly garnished with roasted
vegetables and toasted chestnuts arrived and everyone was
expressing exaggerated groans at their expanding girth.

“I could play Macbeth,” he
suggested hopefully as soon as the
cuisse de chevreuil
had
been dished out. “I have been studying day and night and know the
lines by heart. Hamish Ross will never learn them in time. He will
ruin your play by fudging all the important scenes.”

“I’m sorry to have to say
this,” said Lola, sounding not a bit, as she put down her knife and
fork to stage a dramatic pause, “but you do not have the physical
presence. Macbeth is a murderous war general who exudes strength
and power and masculinity.”

“If I wear shoulder pads I can
look the part,” Carter persisted pathetically. “It’s all down to
costume really.”

Lola stared at the effete hands
clinging tightly to the silver cutlery to stop from trembling. “I
don’t think so,” she delivered bluntly. “It’s about character and
voice. And I am sorry to have to say this too but murderous greed
and overweening ambition cannot be portrayed by a whiny voice.
Macbeth needs to project a forceful and manly tone that then
transforms to that of a tortured hell-bent soul otherwise the play
is not believable.”

“I cannot see a common ghillie
playing a tortured hell-bent soul and being believed,” observed
Carter caustically.

Miss Lambert momentarily forgot
herself and hoisted her elbows onto the table as she projected
herself front and centre. “A common ghillie!” she spluttered hotly.
“There is nothing common about being a ghillie! It is a noble
profession that calls for vast knowledge and endless energy! Caring
for the streams and burns that God gave us and the fish that live
in them and the animals that make their homes along the riverbanks
is the highest calling!”

All eyes turned to look at the
young lady and her cheeks turned cherry pink. She immediately
shrank back into the wings and took a gulp of red wine to cool down
but it only served to stew the two cherries in their own mortified
juices.

Eyes switched back to Carter
Dee, everyone was starting to feel sorry for him, even his lordship
felt some sympathy.

“You can have my role?” he
offered generously, feeling sorry for his earlier fit of distemper,
as he washed down a mouthful of venison with a mouthful of
excellent
grand cru
. “I don’t much care for theatrics – by
that I mean appearing personally on the stage,” he qualified
quickly, smiling lovingly at his fiancée.

Carter shook his head dismally.
“No offence, god-father, but your role is really just background.
You get killed off fairly quickly. And logic dictates that Duncan
should be played by Duncan otherwise there will follow all manner
of confusion on the part of the audience.” He delivered this last
bit tongue-in-cheek. “I guess I’m stuck with being a witch.”

At this point the conversation
ran off at tangents as each dinner guest turned to speak to the
person to their left or right. This continued until dessert.

“Who is playing the role of
Malcolm?” posed the Countess to no one in particular, spearing a
morsel of
crepe a l’orange
.

“That is I,” replied Mr
Larssensen in a throaty timbre. “I am playing Malcolm, the son of
Duncan, and I don’t really want to swap roles at this late stage.
I’ve been learning my lines all week and I’m afraid I may get
hopelessly muddled if I change now.”

“No one is asking you to swap,”
assured Miss O’Hara, meeting the Viking’s wolken gaze and holding
it for one long moment - a moment that soared above the muted
volume and the intangible length.

“Who is playing Banquo?”
pursued the Countess.

“I am,” mumbled the other
golfer. “It goes with the name, you see! Mr Bancoe and Banquo!” he
laughed heartily, spitting
jus l’orange
across the
divide.

“What about Banquo’s son?”
asked the doctor, who had spent the duration of dinner desperately
trying to recall the dramatis personae from the Scottish play and
praying that Seyton had the shortest number of very short lines.
“What was his name?”

“Fleance,” supplied Miss Dee
who seemed to have a good grasp of the details of just about
everything. “Fleance is being played by Mr Brown, the man who
caddies for Mr Bancoe.”

“So as not to confuse anyone,”
added her brother wryly. “The two go together!”

Everyone laughed, not because
his quip was funny but because dinner
a la russe
had come to
an end and they all felt incredibly relieved. A truce could be
called between the warring factions. The men could hunker down in
the trenches of the billiard room and fortify themselves with port
and cigars, and the ladies could retreat to the music room and
pacify themselves with coffee and cocoa.

Miss Dee slipped her arm
through the Countess’s as they crossed the alabaster entrance hall,
a swish of silk and velvet skirts swaying in tandem. “I will give
you my copy of the play before you go home tonight. I know my lines
by heart and I don’t need it anymore. That way you can start
learning your lines right away and familiarize yourself with the
scenes. We’re not doing the whole play, just an abridged version of
it according to the whim of Lola.”

“Thank you, that’s very
thoughtful of you.”

“You don’t mind playing one of
the witches, do you?”

“
Pas du tout
! It sounds
like great fun!”

“That’s the spirit!” praised
Miss Dee. “My brother tends to take things to heart. Minor
injustices that just wash off me have a tendency to eat away at
him. I hate to admit it,” she confided, leaning closer to whisper
in the Countess’s ear, “and I would never say this to another human
being, but, well, Lola was right. He is not a man’s man. He’s a bit
of a sissy. You’ve probably noticed how his hands shake. He is such
a nervous Nellie. Every little noise appals him and sometimes he
even jumps at his own shadow. I fear that if I win the tournament
it will shatter his confidence completely.”

“He is so fortunate to have a
caring sister to look out for him.”

“I try my best,” sighed Miss
Dee. “But I feel as if I am walking on eggshells the whole time. It
is a fine line between making a man of him and looking after my own
best interests. I don’t think he has ever gotten over the fact I
was first born the natural way and he was plucked from our mother’s
womb after she actually died on the birthing bed. Do you have any
brothers or sisters?”

“I’m an only child.”

“You don’t realize how lucky
you are. I love my brother dearly, but, well, sometimes I find
myself wishing I was an only child. That is such an awful thing to
admit. I hope I have not horrified you. It’s just that I feel I can
say things to you that I would not be able to reveal to another
living soul.” She gave the Countess’s arm a tight, quick, endearing
squeeze. “I feel I have known you forever. If only
we
could
have been sisters it would have been so jolly!”

The Countess did not notice
that Miss Dee had steered her toward a piano.

“Let’s play a duet,” she
suggested enthusiastically.

“Oh, yes!” approved the
dowager, parking herself in the seat nearest to the fire. “We could
do with some music after that tedious dinner. Such talk would never
have been tolerated in my day. Manners have been allowed to slip.
Someone needs to take a shotgun and put that disgruntled young man
out of his misery!”

“Oh, Lady Moira!” chastised
Miss Lambert, pouring the dowager a cup of cocoa. “You don’t really
mean that!”

“Oh, yes I do!”

Miss Dee’s flexible fingers
suddenly fumbled a couple of ivories on the piano but the Countess
managed to cover for her. The growing empathy between the two young
women was cemented at that moment. When they ceased playing, Miss
Lambert took to the piano. No one noticed that Miss O’Hara had not
joined them until it was time for the séance to begin.

“Oh, come sisters!” essayed the
dowager. “It is time to speak to the spirit world!”

“Shall I fetch the gentlemen
from the billiard room?” asked Miss Lambert helpfully.

“Yes,” replied the dowager.
“Direct them to the library. And Miss O’Hara too,” she added with a
disapproving scowl. “She will most likely be ingratiating herself
with the male members of the household.”

The library was a long narrow
room about eighty feet in length with a coffered ceiling and an
abundance of wood-panelling. Bookshelves lined one entire wall and
large sash windows punctuated the other, double doors stood at
either end for ease of entry and exit. Doric columns cleverly
delineated what could have been nothing more than a grand corridor
into intimate areas dotted with armchairs for reading, desks for
letter-writing, library tables and folio cupboards. A quartet of
columns also served to define the mid-point of the room which
featured a bow window and a massive fireplace with an elaborately
carved black marble mantel featuring caryatids, acanthus scrolls,
thistles and some intertwined C’s.

It was in the front of this
fireplace that a large round table stood with eleven chairs around
it. The room had not been electrified for fear of the bright light
ruining the antiquarian books, and the Stygian gloom was perfect
for inducing dead spirits to rise from their graves.

Lady Moira occupied the
throne-like chair facing toward the bow window, her back to the
crackling fire. Miss Dee and the Countess sat side by side,
directly opposite.

Miss Lambert soon joined them
and took the chair to the left of the dowager.

Lord Cruddock and the Rajah
arrived next. They chose not to take a seat just yet but chatted
quietly in the alcove created by the bow window. His lordship stood
with one hand shoved casually into the pocket of his dinner jacket
and the other hand wrapped around a whiskey tumbler, giving the
semblance of a host who is at ease among his guests but a clenched
jaw belied the relaxed air. His eyes kept darting to the double
door as though Beelzebub might blow in any minute.

Dr Watson arrived with Mr
Bancoe. The doctor immediately chose a seat away from the Countess,
which offered a different perspective of the room. If there were
going to be any supernatural shenanigans at this séance he wanted
to be able to spot them and call their bluff.

This was a fact little known
about the good doctor but as well as being a member of the Micawber
Club he was also a member of the Ghost Club. He belonged to the
Ghost Club not because he believed in ghosts, but because he did
not. The name of the club was chosen deliberately for its ironic
value. Members were called in whenever someone was convinced their
house was haunted or they themselves were the victims of
supernatural forces. In every case, there was a human hand behind
the paranormal happenstance – hidden wires, fuzzy photographic
images, invisible chemical vapours and diabolical imaginations.

Mr Bancoe hovered behind his
chair, puffing on a pipe and tugging at his cuffs as he shifted
uncomfortably from foot to foot, giving the impression of a man
whose shoes were the same as his suit - one size too small.

“I’m, er, I’m sorry, Lady
Moira,” he stammered nervously, “but I cannot be a party to
supernatural soliciting. My father was a Methodist minister and he
deplored all things to do with the dark arts and Lucifer and his
evil minions. Once the gates of Hell are opened they cannot be
closed. My conscience will not allow me to participate in this
hocussing and pocussing,” he finished gruffly, spinning on his heel
and rushing from the room, flushed with self-righteous
embarrassment.

He was moving so swiftly he
almost collided with his golfing partner.

Mr Larssensen glanced back over
his shoulder as the other whooshed past him like a wayward golf
ball with a mind of its own.

“Are you alright, old salt?” Mr
Larssensen called with some concern. When he didn’t get an answer
he shrugged his substantial Viking shoulders and joined the two men
in the alcove.

“Where did you disappear to
after dinner?” put his lordship somewhat bluntly as he tossed back
a decent measure of whiskey. “We could have used a good snooker
player. That god-son of mine is utterly hopeless. Fortunately he
didn’t hang around for long.”

“I needed forty winks,” replied
the Viking, adjusting his white tie which he suddenly noticed via
the overmantel mirror was sitting slightly askew. “I played a
shocker today, six over par. I think I need to cut out the late
nights and all the rich food.”

Just then the double doors
opened at the opposite end of the library and in sashayed Miss
O’Hara. Irish eyes flew down the length of the room, scanning the
faces of those present before settling on her beloved. “I hope I’m
not late,” she offered breathlessly, as she smoothed back her
voluptuous red hair.

Lord Cruddock flashed an
indulgent smile. “Not at all, darling. Did you decide to have a lie
down after dinner?”

“No,” interrupted Carter Dee,
speaking for the actress as he followed in her glamorous wake and
quietly closed the door. “She was with me. We both had the same
idea about checking the costumes for the play. Seyton’s costume
should fit Dr Watson without the need for any adjustment but the
witch’s cloak for Countess Volodymyrovna may need the hem taking
up. Isn’t that what we decided?”