The Lammas Curse (15 page)

The old lady gasped
apoplectically. “It is not his to dismantle!”

“He believes the section where
the stone steps lead to the old bell tower is dangerous.”

“Nonsense!” snorted the old
lady consumptively. “It is only dangerous if some fool tries to
climb to the top – but who would be so stupid!”

The Countess caught Miss
Lambert’s eye. The look was one that warned and beseeched
simultaneously. Miss Lambert heeded the look, and recalled the
words of Mr Ross as well – don’t get embroiled into defending his
decision. She let the matter drop.

Once the doctor and the
Countess were alone in their carriage they returned to the subject
of the swindle.

“I don’t think it is a good
idea to bring up the matter of the Bay of Bengal swindle in
conversation with his lordship,” said the Countess.

“I agree. I will tackle Mr
Hamish Ross instead. He may be able to shed more light on the
matter, though it seems too long ago to be relevant now.”

“Grudges can fester for long
periods of time. It is human nature whether in India or Scotland to
want some sort of revenge for wrongdoing and do not forget
vengeance is a dish best served cold. By the way, have you noticed
how Miss Lambert’s eyes light up whenever anyone mentions the name
of Hamish Ross?”

“Your simpering romanticism is
showing!” he teased.

“I caught them together at the
abbey ruins this morning,” she defended.

“They were both coming to
Graymalkin. Nothing could be more natural than that they should
bump into each other at the ruins.”

“And that’s just what they did
– they bumped right into each other’s arms!”

He managed to cross-hatch a
chortle with a snigger, but secretly it was one more thing to worry
about. He felt duty bound to look out for his wife’s niece. “Even
if you are right, she is only nineteen, and though he is about
thirty I cannot see him providing for a wife just yet. Unless his
lordship offers his ghillie better lodgings than a one bedroom
crofter’s hut I cannot see it happening. What’s more, I cannot give
my blessing – he is illegitimate.”

“How do you know he is
illegitimate?”

“Someone mentioned it after the
dinner party when the men retired to the billiard room. I cannot
recall who said it but we were talking about the scandal in Bohemia
regarding the king’s bastard son when someone said: same as Hamish
Ross. Then we moved on to William the Conqueror and so on. And
before you condemn me, bear in mind that Miss Lambert has no
parents and I feel duty bound to act in loco parentis.”

“Perhaps your loco parentis can
demonstrate leniency since he bears your namesake.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“J. H. Watson - H for Hamish –
your middle name.”

“What makes you think the H
stands for Hamish?” he challenged.

“Henry is the name of your
brother, so that rules that out. Harold, Hubert, Herbert, Harvey,
Harley or Horatio are unlikely Scottish monikers, however a
derivative of the Gaelic Seamus or Saumus is highly likely, hence
Hamish.”

Lola O’Hara had decided that
the private family chapel in the north wing of Cruddock Castle
would make a perfect theatre. The apse, denuded of the usual
religious trappings, had been turned into a stage with masses of
gold-fringed, red velvet curtains and some dazzling limelights
lining the dais. A painted backdrop had been positioned in front of
the stained glass window. A mezzanine to the rear of the chapel
housed an organ that would provide the music. There was even space
for a harpist and a drummer. A door to the left hand side of the
stage led to the vestry and then into a corridor. It made a perfect
entrance for the actors. There was a powder room at one end of the
corridor and several large storerooms that had been converted into
dressing rooms and closets for costumes, props and scenery. To the
right hand side of the stage was a door that opened to a covered
porch which led into a sunken garden. This made for a good exit
point. From the sunken garden the actors could hurry back to the
corridor for their next entrance.

“Are you feeling alright?”
asked the Countess as she and Dr Watson proceeded down the aisle of
the chapel. “You look white around the gills.”

“I feel a bit queasy,” he
squeaked, noting the limelights. “I think I might have eaten too
many anchovies,” he lied. He was annoyed about how she got the H
right too, and he had not forgiven her for noticing so much the
first night when he had noticed so little. Salivating, indeed!

Miss Dee, who had been chatting
to his lordship by the vestry door, broke off her conversation and
smiled pleasantly. If she was surprised to see the Countess
uninjured her face did not betray her.

“What did you think of the view
from the bell tower?” Miss Dee asked guilelessly. “Did you go right
to the top of the steps?”

“Oh, yes! The view was
to-die-for!” That part at least was true, and Miss Dee appeared
delighted that she enjoyed it. Perhaps there was nothing sinister
in the motive to send her to the top of the bell tower after
all.

Miss O’Hara swept down the
aisle like the Queen of Sheba on her way to meet Solomon. All
conversation abruptly ceased. Those who were not on stage were
expected to sit silently in the pews and watch the play unfold. No
one dared disobey.

They started with the opening
scene: Thunder and lightning. Enter Three Witches.

But only two witches were out
on the dark and windy heath: the Countess and Miss Lambert. Mr Dee
was nowhere to be seen. There was some nervous coughing but no one
spoke. They watched with bated breath, picturing what would happen
once Carter Dee made an appearance. The Witchfinder General would
be sure to flay him mercilessly.

Scene 1: The heath.

“Fair is foul, and foul is
fair.

Hover through the fog and
filthy air...”

Exeunt.

Scene 2: Enter King Duncan and
Malcolm.

Scene 3: The Three Witches on
the heath - but there were still only two.

“A drum, a drum!

Macbeth doth come.”

Suddenly Carter made an
entrance, but he wasn’t playing the part of a witch. He was
speaking the lines of Macbeth. Behind him, a fraction late,
stumbled his trusty underling, Banquo, red in the face and just as
confused as everyone else.

“So foul and fair a day I have
not seen,” declared Carter-Macbeth stridently – and everyone held
their collective breath.

What was going on?

At the end of the scene it was
timid Miss Lambert who put into words what everyone was thinking
but were too afraid to voice.

“Why is Carter Dee playing
Macbeth? Where is Mr Hamish Ross?”

Miss O’Hara flew out of the
directorial throne and flounced onto the stage. “I have decided
that Mr Dee is best suited to playing Macbeth. Mr Ross has not
learnt his lines and has no hope of learning them in time for the
opening. He will help with the scenery changes and the curtain and
anything that needs doing backstage.”

A chorus of incredulous
murmuring broke out though no one dared question the decision to
depose Mr Ross in favour of Mr Dee. No one dared remind Miss O’Hara
of her stringent criticism of Mr Dee’s ability to convincingly
portray a murderous war general.

“Does Mr Hamish Ross know of
your decision?” dared Miss Lambert, sounding offended on his
behalf.

“Of course he knows!” snapped
Miss O’Hara, and it was a case of ‘pluck out mine eyes’ to anyone
who dared to lift their gaze higher than the floor. “Though it is
no concern of yours whether he knows it or not! It is
my
play!” she reminded haughtily.

“Who will play the third
witch?” asked the Countess, the only person who was not totally
astonished by the astonishing turnaround.

Miss O’Hara flounced across the
front of the stage and how natural the treading of the boards
seemed to her. She stopped and pirouetted with a flourish when she
reached the curtained wing and addressed the cowering audience,
projecting her voice like one giving a royal performance at the
Edinburgh Playhouse or addressing the worshipful at St Paul’s –
there not being much difference between the two.

“I have given that very
question some not inconsiderable thought and I am glad you asked
it. I cannot permit one of the female servants to go on the stage.
It will give them intolerable airs and graces. And I do not wish
Miss Dee to go back to playing a dual role. Ergo, I have decided
that your foreign maid will play the third witch. She has a rustic
face, well-suited to a night-hag, and her foreign accent will
thrill the audience. It will be a
coup de theatre
!”

Miss O’Hara grew more and more
short-tempered as the evening progressed. Everyone forgot their
lines, some minor, some not so minor, but the more she berated
them, the more tongue-tied and muddled they got. Most of them were
so confused by the end of rehearsal they would have forgotten their
own names. It was 10 o’clock before they were permitted to shuffle
off to supper like naughty children who had forgotten their
catechisms.

Miss Lambert, tears welling in
her eyes, ran through the vestry in search of Mr Hamish Ross, and
the fact she did not appear at supper later suggested she had found
him and that he was licking his wounds in private, or possibly
venting his spleen.

The Countess put on an
agreeable smile and tucked her arm through Miss Dee’s as they
tripped out of the chapel. Lola O’Hara had provided her with the
perfect opening to broach the topic she had been most keen to
discuss.

“How do you think Mr Hamish
Ross will react to the extraordinary news that he has been deposed
by your brother?”

“Oh, he already knows. He took
it on the chin. He is not bothered.”

“Really?” She feigned shock.
“When did Miss O’Hara break the news to him?”

“Just before you arrived. I
overheard her telling him in his dressing room. She just made the
announcement and that was that. I saw through a crack in the door
as Hamish Ross simply unbuckled his sword, stood up, and went out
into the garden.”

“Dr Watson expressed some
concern that his wife’s niece seems a little too fond of the
ghillie. Do you think that is the case?”

“Oh, without a doubt, the poor
girl is hopelessly besotted.”

“I hate to gossip, but Dr
Watson also confided in me that he is worried that his niece may
make an unsuitable match since she has no one to look out for her
best interests. Dr Watson thinks the ghillie’s parentage is
doubtful.
Entre nous
, he may even be illegitimate.”

“Well, I am not one for
gossiping either but it is quite true. Hamish Ross was born on the
wrong side of the blanket.”

“And here was I thinking that
my housekeeper was a widow but there you have it. There was never
any Mr Ross to begin with.”

“None whatsoever.”

“I wonder who the father might
be?”

The conversation was abruptly
terminated. They had arrived in the dining room where supper had
been laid out on a sideboard. The food had been kept warm using
silver cloches, but several of the delicate sauces had congealed
and were totally ruined. Everyone was present except for Miss
O’Hara who had gone straight to her bedroom, complaining of a
headache. Dr Watson waited until everyone was seated around the
table, plates heaped with comfort food.

“I am sorry to have to announce
that there has been a tragic accident this afternoon. Mr Brown was
found dead this afternoon at the Marmion Hydro -”

That was as far as he got.
Shocked gasps were followed by an immediate barrage of questions:
What did this mean for the tournament? Had the police been
notified? Had the Yard been informed?

Everyone looked pale and
frightened. Up to this point they may have convinced themselves
that the other deaths had been accidents but as the hare-lip man
had pointed out – a man did not plunge headfirst down a covered
well by accident.

Lord Cruddock’s voice was grim.
“I will have to cancel the tournament. Mr Bancoe has no caddy and
the police will want to look into the matter.”

Catherine and Carter Dee both
cried out at the same time: “No! God-father, please! Postpone it if
you must but you cannot cancel!”

It was Dr Watson who answered
their prayers. “I don’t think it will be necessary to cancel the
tournament. The accident happened at the hotel not on the golf
course or the Cruddock estate. Naturally, the police will want to
question everyone but they will not have the right to halt a
tournament being played on private property. As for the caddy – I
have been giving the matter some thought, and if Mr Bancoe will
have me, I will be happy to volunteer my services. I was hoping to
be able to observe the tournament from close quarters and what
better way than as a caddy.”

Mr Bancoe thanked him profusely
and accepted his offer most gratefully.

The Dees applauded his generous
spirit.

“Bravo, Dr Watson!” trilled
Miss Dee, clapping her hands.

When the buzz died down and
everyone returned to their plates of food, albeit with appetites
dulled, it was the doctor who spoke once again.

“I have offered to examine the
body of Mr Brown first thing tomorrow since I have had some
experience in this area, so may I be so bold as to suggest the
tournament be postponed by one day. If his lordship is in
agreement, it can recommence the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes! Absolutely!” chimed
the chorus led by Mr Bancoe and Mr Larssensen who were delighted to
have an extra day to recover from another late night and a stomach
weighed down with countless courses of rich food.

By the end of the evening the
doctor was fairly pleased with himself. He had handled that well,
he thought. And his time on stage had not been a total
disaster.